



Qass 

Book 


COPYRIGHT DEPOSIT 






Christine, the Model; 


OR, 

STUDIES OF LOVE. 


Being the Struggles of Nana’s Artist Brother, Claude Lantier, in 
a new School of Art, wherein Bohemianism and Artist Life 
in Paris among the Beautiful Models in the Studios are 
described and vividly and truthfully depicted. 

BY EMILE ZOLA. 

$ 4 

AUTHOR OF “NANA,” “ l'aSSOMMOIR,” “ CLAUDE’s CONFESSION,” “ HELENE,” 
“ rOT-BOUILLE,” “ THERESE KAQUIN,” “HER TWO HUSBANDS,” “ALBINE,” 

. “ NANA’S BROTHER,” “THE GIRL IN SCARLET,” “MAGDALEN FERAT,” 

“the COURT OF LOUIS NAPOLEON,” “ IN THE WHIRLPOOL,” 

“ THE JOYS OF LIFE,” “ THE MYSTERIES OF MARSEILLES,” 

“ THE SHOP GIRLS OF PARIS,” “ LA BELLE LISA,” 

“a mad LOVE ; OR, THE ABBE AND HIS COURT.” 


“ Christine, the Model ; or, Studies of Love,” by Emile Zola, is the latest 
production of that world-famous realistic novelist’s pen, and a most wonderful and ab- 
sorbing romance it is. Spicy, brilliant, original and startling, it fascinates from the 
opening paragraph to the closing word. As the setting for this ambitious and daring 
work, Zola has taken the Bohemian branch of the artistic world in Paris, and the novd 
progres.ses amid a thorough dissection of artist life and a complete expos6 of the doings 
and methods of a host of aspiring painters, all of whom are more or less cranks. Zola 
fairly revels amid these piquant revelations, and they give a zest to his book impossible 
to describe and certainly unsurpassed. The hero is Nana’s brother, Claude Lantier, 
the son of Gervaise and Lantier of “ L’Assommoir.” His life with Christine is one long 
struggle with poverty and false hopes, and the tragedy at the close is perhaps the strong- 
est piece of vivid word-painting in which Zola has yet indulged. Christine is a mag- 
nificently drawn character, and she pervades the book, stamping it from beginning to 
end with her personality. " Christine, the Model” is sure to create a marked sen- ' 
sation and to become immediately one of the most popular books of the day. 


<) 

> 

* ^ 


/O' 


JA.i S ^ 

'PHILADELPHIA: “ 

B. PETERSON & BROTHERS; 

306 CHESTNUT STREET. 


T 


copyright . — 1 8 87. 

T- 33. & 3BI2,0'riIEI2,S. 


TZ 3 
.Zl<VCi 

— — o><x^^fe>ocjo 

lilST OF ZOIiA’S GREAT REALISTIC WORKS. 

Petersons’ Origmal Translations from the French. 

The Shop Girls or Sales-Eadies of Paris; with their Life and Experi- 
ences in a Large Dry Goods Store. By Emile Zola, author of “ Nana.” 


Nanais Rrother. Stephen Lantier. Son of “Gervaise” and “Lantier” of 
“ L'Assommoir.” By Emile Zola, author of “Nana,” “ L’Assonimoir,” etc. 


Nana. The Sequel to “ Ij*.4ssoinnioir.** By Emile Zola, author of 
“Pot-Bouille,” “L’Assommoir,” etc. With a portrait of “Nana” on the cover. 


li’Assoinmoir. By Emile Zola, author of “Nana,” “Pot-Bouille,” “Albine,” 
“ Helene,” etc. With a portrait of “ Gervaise,” the mother of “ Nana,” on the cover. 


The Joys of Life. (I^a Joie <le Vivre.) By Emile Zola, author of 
* “ Nana,” “ Pot-Bouille,” “ L’Assommoir,” “ The Girl in Scarlet,” etc. 


The Mysteries of the Court of Louis Napoleon. By Emile Zola, 
author of “ Nana,” “L’Assommoir,” “Pot-Bouille,” “ Helene,” “A Mad Love,” etc. 


Pot-Roiiille. Bu Emile Zola, author of “Nana,” “L’Assommoir,” “Helene,” “A 
Mad Love,” “ The Girl in Scarlet,” “ La Belle Lisa,” etc. With an Illustrated Cover. 


The Girl in Scarlet: or. The Loves of Silvere and Miette. By 

Emile Zola, author of “ Nana,” “ L’Assommoir,” “Pot-Bouille,” “Albine,” etc. 


Her Two Husbands. By Emile Zola, author of “Nana” and “ L'Assommoir.” 


In the Whirlpool. By Emile Zola, author of “ Nana,” “ L’Assommoir,” etc. 


Claude’s Confession. By Emile Zola, author of “ Nana," “ L’Assommoir,” etc. 


The Mysteries of Marseilles. By Emile Zola, author of “ Nana.** 


Albine ; or, The Abbe’s Temptation. By Emile Zola, author of “ Nana.” 


A Mad Love; or. The Abbe and His Court. By Emile Zola. 


Helene. A Tale of Love and Pi^sion. By Emile Zola, author of “Nana.” 


La Relle Lisa; or. The Paris Market Girls. By Emile Zola. 

- ■ . ■ u ■ ' 

A , 

Mag^dalen Ferat. By Emile Zola, author of “ Nana” and “L’Assommoir.** 

> 


Therese Raquin. By Emile Zola, author of “Nana** and “L’Assommoir.** 


Nana’s Hanghter. Sequel to “Zola’s Nana.** With Portraits on the Cover, 


L 


CONTENTS. 


Cfiapter. * - Page 

I. Claude’s adventure 21 

II. THE ARTIST AND HIS FRIENDS 60 

III. BOHEMIAN LIFE 73 

IV. CHRISTINE’S SACRIFICE 115 

V. THE SALON OF THE REJECTED 148 

VI. THE COUNTRY HOME 182 

VII. SCOURING PARIS AGAIN 213 

VIII. A CATASTROPHE AND A WEDDING 253 

IX. “the dead child” 290 

X. PASSED SILENTLY BY 334 

XI. A FINAL SPLITTING UP 389 

XII. SUICIDE 432 

( 19 ) 


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CHRISTmE, THE MODEL; 

OR, STXJOIES OF LOVE. 

Being the Struggles op Nana’s Artist Brother, Claude Lantier, in 
A new School of Art, wherein Bohemianism and Artist Life 
IN Paris among the Beautiful Models in the Studios 
ARE described AND VIVIDLY AND TRUTHFULLY DEPICTED. 

BY ZOLA. 

AUTHOR OF “NANA,” “ L’ASSOMMOIR,” “CLAUDE’S CONFESSION,” “HELENE,” 
“POT-BOUILLE,” “THERESE RAQUIN,” “MYSTERIES OF MARSEILLES, 
“THE GIRL IN SCARLET,” “MAGDALEN FERAT,” “ALBINE,” 

“THE COURT OP LOUIS NAPOLEON,” “A MAD LOVE,” 

“THE SHOP GIRLS OF PARIS,” “NANA’S BROTHER,” . 

“THE JOYS OP LIFE,” “HER TWO HUSBANDS,” 

“LA BELLE LISA,” “IN THE WHIRLPOOL,” ETC. 


CHAPTER I. 

CLAUDE’S ADVENTURE. 

A GIRL staggering through the streets of Paris 
in a beating tliunderstorm at, two o’clock in 
the morning! A tall, handsome young girl, elad in 
black, drenched, and quivering with terror amid the 
vivid flashes of lightning that blinded her. 

All was impenetrable, inky gloom, save when the 
flashes came; and in one of these the girl caught 
sight of a doorway in which she took shelter, all of 
a tremble. 

Claude Lantier, Hana’s brother, had gone by the 
Hotel de Yille. He was in the streets when the 
storm had come on. During this scorching July night 
he had been absently strolling about the Central 

( 21 ) 


22 


CLAUDE’S ADVENTUKE. 


Markets, in love with nocturnal Paris. Suddenly the 
rain grew so heavy that he started off on a run, 
bewildered, along the Quai de la Gr^ve.' Arrived at 
the Pont Louis Philippe, he suddenly stopped, angry 
at being out of breath. This dread of the rain was 
idiotic, he thought. He walked with slackened pace 
over the bridge in the thick darkness, beneath the 
beating tempest, his hands hanging at his side. 

He had but a short distance further to go. As he 
came to the Quai Bourbon, on the Isle St. Louis, a 
vivid flash of lightning showed the old houses fronting 
the Seine. It lighted up the panes of the lofty win- 
dows without shutters, displaying in detail the melan- 
choly fronts of the old-fashioned mansions; a stone 
balcony, a terrace rail, a garland cut on a frieze. 
There was the artist’s studio, beneath the eaves of 
the antique Hotel du Martoy, almost at the corner of 
the Eue de la Femme-sans-Tete. A loud clap of 
thunder shook the sleepy quarter, and the quay, that 
had been brightened for an instant, grew sombre again. 

Claude, blinded by the rain, reached his door, a low, 
iron-studded, rounded affair, and searched for the bell 
handle. As he fumbled about he gave a start of 
intense surprise, for he felt, crouching against the wood- 
work, a living being. A second flash showed that 
this being was a tall young girl, dressed in black, 
soaked with the wet, and trembling from head to foot. 
A second clap of thunder came and Claude cried out : 

“You frightened me I Who are you and what are 
you after here?” 

The girl was once more invisible, but he heard her 
sob and murmur: 

“Don’t hurt me, monsieur! It was the hackman’s 
fault! I hired him at the railway ddpot, but he abused 
me and left me here. Hear Hevers a train ran off* 
the track. That delayed us four hours and the person 
who was to wait for me did not stay. I have never 


CLAUDE’S ADVENTURE. 


23 


been in this great city before — I don’t know anything 
about Paris. I don’t know where I am ! ” 

Another lightning flash. It bewildered her and she 
stopped suddenly, her affrighted eyes staring at the 
strange world in which she was, this violet-hued phan- 
tom of a weird city. The rain was over by this time. 
Across the Seine was the Quai des Ormes, with its 
yellow, white and gray tenements, all of them small, 
with the Avoodwork of their shops below and their 
irregular roofs above in bold outline. All of a sudden 
the horizon cleared on the left as far as the blue slate 
eaves of the Hotel de Ville and on the right, as far 
as St. Paul’s dome of lead. She was oppressed most 
by the embankment of the river, the deep cut through 
which the dark and turgid Seine ran from the Pont 
Maries’ heavy piles to the Pont Louis Philippe’s light 
arches. The river was full of strange masses — a fleet 
of small boats and yawls, a moored washhouse and a 
dredging machine made fast to the quay. Further 
down, against the opposite bank, were coal -laden 
lighters, barges loaded with millstones, the huge arm 
of a steam crane over them. Then all was again dense 
blackness. Everything vanished. 

“Some outcast,” Claude thought, “some wretch kicked 
out of doors and looking for another prey 1 ” 

Instinctively he distrusted women. The accident, 
the delayed train, tlie rough driver, all the story told 
bv the girl, was to his mind a foolish invention. 
When the second thunder clap came, the outcast had 
shrunk back still more into her corner, quaking with 
the utmost terror. 

“ But you cannot stop here all night,” he said 
aloud. 

. She sobbed still more and stammered: “I beseech 
you, monsieur, take me to ?assy. That’s where I 
was going.” 

He shrugged his shoulders. Did she take him for 


24 


Claude’s adventure. 


a fool? Mechanically, however, he turned towards, the 
Quai des Celestins, where there was a cabstand. Not 
the faintest glimmer of a lamp to be seen. 

“To. Passy, my dear? Why not at once to Versailles 
while you are about it? Where the deuce do you 
think one can pick up a cab at this time of night, 
and in such weather?” 

Her only ansAver was a shriek; a flash of lightning 
had almost blinded her, and this time she had seen 
the tragic city spattered with blood. An immense 
chasm was revealed to her, the two strips of the river 
stretching away as far as she could see amidst the 
lurid flames of a conflagration. The smallest details 
stood out in bold relief: the tiny Venetian blinds of 
the Quai des Ormes, and the two openings of the Kue 
de la Masure, and the Kue du Paon-Blanc disparting 
the line of frontages; near the Pont Marie you could 
have counted the leaves on the lofty plane trees, 
standing there like a bouquet of magnificent verdure; 
while on the other side, beneath the Pont Louis 
Philippe, at the Mail, the barges ranged in a quadru- 
ple line flared with the piles of yellow apples with 
which they were heavily laden. Then there was the 
ripple of the water, the high chimney of the floating 
washhouse, the tightened chain of the dredger, the 
heaps of sand on the banks, an extraordinary agglom- 
eration of things, quite a little world filling the vast 
gap from one horizon to the other. But the sky 
became dark again, and the river flowed on in obscu- 
rity amid the roar of the thunder. 

“Thank God it’s over! Oh, heaven! what’s to become 
of me? ” 

Just then the rain began to fall again, so stiffly and 
impelled by such a wind that it swept along the 
quay with the violence of water escaping through an 
open lock. 


CLAUDE’S ADVENTURE. 


25 


“Come, let me get in,” said Claude; “I can stand 
tliis no longer.” 

Both were getting drenched. By the flickering light 
of the gas lamp fixed to the corner of the Eue de la 
Femme-sans-Tete he saw the water dripping from her 
dress, which was clinging to her form, in the deluge 
that swept against the door. He was seized with 
compassion. Had he not once picked up a cur on 
such a stormy night as this ? But he felt angry with 
himself for softening. He never took a stray girl into 
his place; he treated them all as if ignorant of their 
existence, with a painful timidity which he disguised 
under a mask of brutal bravado. And this one really 
thought him a downright fool, to accost him like that 
with her adventure — only fit for a farce. Neverthe- 
less, he ended by saying ; “ That will do ; let’s get 

up-stairs. You can sleep in my place.” 

At this, the girl became even more frightened, and 
threw up her arms. 

“At your place; oh, good heavens! No, no; it’s 
impossible. I beseech you, monsieur, take me to Passy. 
Let me beg of you!” 

Then Claude became angry. Why all this fuss, 
when he was willing to give her shelter? He had 
already rung the bell twice. At last the door opened 
and he pushed the girl before him. 

“No, no, monsieur; I tell you, no!” 

But another flash dazzled her and when the thun- 
der growled she bounded inside, not knowing what 
she was about. The heavy door had closed upon 
them ; she was standing under a large archway in 
complete darkness. 

“It’s I, Madame Joseph,” cried Claude to the door- 
keeper. Then he added in a whisper: “Give me 
your hand, we have to cross the court-yard.” 

The girl did as she was told, she no longer resisted ; 
she was stunned and worn out. Once more they felt 


26 


Claude’s adventure. 


the diluvian rain, as they ran side by side as hard 
as they conld. It was a baronial court-yard, enor- 
mous, and surrounded with stone arcades, indistinct 
amidst the gloom. Then they came to a narrow pas- 
sage without a door, and he let go her hand. She 
could hear him trying to strike some matches, and 
swearing. They were all damp. It was necessary to 
grope one’s way up-stairs. 

“Take hold of the banisters, and be careful; the 
steps are very high.” 

The staircase, a very narrow one, a former servant’s 
staircase, was divided into three disproportionately 
high flights, which she climbed, stumbling, with unskil- 
ful weary limbs. Then he warned her that they had 
to follow a long passage. She kept behind him brush- 
ing the walls on both sides with outstretched hands, 
advancing along this endless passage which, with a 
bend, came back to the front of the building on the 
quay. There was still another staircase, right under 
the roof, wooden stairs without a banister which 
creaked, shaky and almost vertical, like the unplaned 
rungs of a miller’s ladder. The landing at the top 
was so small that the girl knocked against the young 
man, fumbling in his pocket for his key. At last he 
opened the door. 

“Don’t come in, but wait, else you’ll hurt yourself 
again.” 

She did not stir. She was panting for breath — her 
heart was beating fast — there was a buzzing about her 
ears — she felt completely worn out by this ascent in 
the dense gloom. It seemed to her as if she had been 
climbing for hours, in such a maze, amidst such a 
turning and twisting of stories as to prohibit all idea 
of ever going down again. Inside the studio there 
was a shuffling of heavy feet, a rustle of hands gro- 
ping in the dark, a clatter of things being tumbled 


CLAUDE’S ADVENTURE. 


27 


about, accompanied by stifled objurgations. At last 
the doorway was lighted up. 

“ Come in, it’s all right now. ” 

She went in and looked around, without distinguish- 
ing anything. The solitary candle burned dim in this 
garret more than five yards high, filled with a con- 
fused mass of objects, the big shadows of which stood 
out fantastically on the walls, painted in gray distemper. 
No, she did not distinguish anything. She mechani- 
cally lifted her eyes to the large glazed aperture, 
against which the rain was beating like the deafening 
roll of the drum. But just at that moment another 
flash of lightning illuminated the sky, followed almost 
immediately by a thunder-clap that seemed to split the 
roof. Dumb-stricken, pale as death, she dropped on to 
a chair. 

“The devil I” murmured Claude, who also was rather 
pale. “That clap wasn’t far off*. We were just in 
time. It’s better here than in the streets, isn’t it?” 

And he went towards the door, closing it with a 
bang and turning the key, while she watched him with 
a dazed look. 

“ There, now, we are at home.” 

Besides, it was all over. There were only a few 
more thunder-claps in the distance, and the rain soon 
ceased altogether. Claude, who was now growing em- 
barrassed, had examined her, askance. She seemed 
by no means bad looking, and young assuredly; twenty 
at the most. This examination had the eff*ect of mak- 
ing him more suspicious still in spite of an unconscious 
feeling, a vague idea, that she was not altogether 
deceiving him. In any case, no matter how clever 
she might be, she was mistaken if she imagined she 
had caught him. Pie wilfully exaggerated his curt 
manner, and said in a gruff’ voice : 

“Well, you’d better go to bed; you’ll get dry that 
way.” 


28 


CLAUDE’S ADVENTUKE. 


Her very anguish made her rise, and in her turn 
she examined him without daring to look him straight 
in the face. This bony young man, with his angular 
joints, his wild bearded head, increased her fear, as if 
he were a kind of brigand, with his black felt hat, 
his old brown coat, discolored by rain. She mur- 
mured : 

“ Thank you ; I’ll do very well as I am.” 

“What! With your clothes dripping? Don’t make 
an idiot of yourself!” 

And he 'began to knock about the chairs, and flung 
aside the screen, rent in several places already. Behind 
it she noticed a washstand and a tiny iron bedstead, 
from which he. began to remove the coverlet. 

“ No, no, monsieur, it isn’t worth while ; I assure 
that I shall stay here.” 

Whereupon he became angry, gesticulating and 
shaking his fists. 

“How much more of this comedy are we to have? 
As I give you my bed, what have you to complain 
of ? And you need not play the timid, it’s useless. 
I’ll sleep on the lounge.” 

He strode towards her with a threatening look. 
Beside herself with fear, thinking that he was going 
to strike her, she tremblingly unfastened her bonnet. 
The water was dripping from her skirt. He kept on 
growling. Nevertheless, a sudden scruple seemed to 
come over him, for he ended by saying, in a conde- 
scending tone : 

“You know, if you don’t like to sleep in my sheets 
I’ll change them.” • 

He was already dragging them from the bed and 
flinging them on the couch at the other end of the 
studio. After this he took a clean pair from the ward- 
robe and began to make the bed with the deftness of 
a bachelor used to that kind of thing. He carefully 


Claude’s adventure. 


29 


tucked in the clothes on the side of the wall, shook 
the pillows, and turned back a corner of the covers. 

“There, that’ll do; get you to by-bye now.” 

And as she did not answer but remained motionless, 
her fingers mechanically fumbling with her bodice, as 
if loth to onfasten it, he pushed her behind the screen, 
“Good heavens! what a deal of modesty!” he thought. 
And he quickly went to bed himself: the sheets spread 
out on the lounge, his clothes hanging from an old 
easel, he himself stretched at full length on his back. 
On the point of blowing out the candle, he reflected 
that she would have to undress in the dark, and he 
waited. At first he had not heard her stir; she had 
no doubt remained standing in the same spot against 
the iron bedstead. But now he heard a slight rustling 
of clothes, and a slow, albeit suppressed, movement, as 
if she were also listening, frightened at the candle which 
was still being kept burning. At last, after several 
minutes, the spring mattress creaked, and all became 
very still. 

“Are you all right, mademoiselle?” asked Claude in 
a gentle voice. 

“Yes, monsieur, I am very well,” she replied in a 
scarcely audible voice, still quivering with emotion. 

“Very well, then. Good-night.” 

“Good-night.” 

He blew out the light, and the silence became more 
intense. In spite of his fatigue, his eyes soon opened 
again, and sleeplessness kept them gazing upward at 
the large window of his studio. The sky had become 
very clear again, the stars were twinkling in the sul- 
try July night, and, despite the storm, the heat 
remained so oppressive that he felt as if he were 
burning, and threw his bare arms outside the sheets. 
He was thinking about this girl — a silent struggle was 
going on within him, between the contempt he was 
proud to evince, the fear of encumbering his existence 


30 


CLAUDE S ADVENTURE. 


and the dread of appearing ridiculous. Contempt, 
however, gained the upper hand; he believed himself 
to be very strong-minded; he imagined a romance 
concocted to destroy his tranquillity, and he gibed 
contentedly at having frustrated it. He felt still more 
oppressed, and kicked the sheets from off his legs, 
while with his head heavy, in the hallucination of 
semi -slumber, he conjured up amid the glistening stars 
the forms of women, all the living flesh which he 
worshipped. 

Then his ideas became more and more confused. 
What was she doing? For a long while he had 
thought that she had gone to sleep, for she 
scarcely seemed to breathe, and now he heard her 
turn round, as he had done, but with infinite precau- 
tions that paralyzed her movements. With his meagre 
experience of women, he endeavored to draw a con- 
clusion from the story she had told him, struck at 
present by certain small facts, and feeling perplexed; 
but such logic as he possessed refused to come to his 
aid. Why, after all, should he worry his brain — what 
for? He did not care a rap whether she had told 
him the truth or a lie. In the morning she would 
go off; there would be an end to it all, and they 
would never see each other again. It was only 
towards daybreak when the stars began to pale that 
he fell asleep. As for the girl behind the screen, she 
continued, in spite of the crushing fatigue of her jour- 
ney, to toss about uneasily, oppressed by the heavi- 
ness of the atmosphere beneath the heated zincwork 
of the roof; and she experienced a sudden shock of 
nervous impatience, she gave an irritated sigh in the 
uneasiness caused her by the presence of a man sleep- 
ing near by, almost within arm’s length. 

In the morning, when Claude awoke, his eyes kept 
blinking. It was very late, and a flood of sunshine 
came through the large window. One of his theories 


CLAUDE’S ADVENTUKE. 


31 


was that young landscape painters should take studios 
despised by academical figure painters; studios which 
the sun inundated with his living beams. Neverthe- 
less he felt dazzled, and sat down again on the couch, 
his legs bare. Why the devil had he been sleeping 
on his couch? His eyes, still heavy with sleep, wan- 
dered mechanically around his studio, when he noticed, 
half hidden by the screen, a heap of petticoats. Then 
he remembered at once all about the girl. He began 
to listen, and heard a long and regular breathing, like 
that of a child comfortably asleep. All right, she 
was still slumbering, and so calmly that it would be 
a pity to disturb her. He felt giddy, and scratched 
his legs, somewhat annoyed at this adventure, which 
again took a hold on him, and which would spoil 
his morning’s work. He got angry at his own good 
nature; it was better to shake her, so that she might 
go at once. Nevertheless he softly slipped on his 
trousers, put on a pair of slippers and walked about 
on tiptoe. 

The cuckoo clock struck nine, and Claude made a 
gesture of annoyance. Nothing had stirred; the regu- 
lar breathing continued. The best thing to do, he 
thought, would be to set to work at his large pic- 
ture; he would see to his breakfast later on, when he 
was able to move about. But after all he could not 
make up his mind. He who lived amid chronic dis- 
order felt worried by this heap of petticoats lying on 
the floor. The water had dripped from them, but 
they were damp still. And while grumbling in a low 
tone he ended by picking them up one by one and 
spreading them on the chairs in the sunlight. Did 
one ever see the like, clothes thrown about anyhow? 
They would never get dry and she would never go 
off! He turned and twisted this woman’s apparel 
very awkwardly, got entangled with the black stuff 
dress-body, went on all fours to look for the stock- 


82 


CLAUDE’S ADVENTURE. 


ings that had fallen behind an old canvas. They were 
Balbriggan stockings of a dark gray, long and fine, 
and he examined them, before hanging them up to 
dry. The bottom of the dress had soaked them, so 
he wrung them, then passed them between his warm 
hands, in order to send her away the quicker. 

Since he had been on his legs, Claude had been 
sorely tempted to push aside the screen and to have 
a look at his guest. This self-condemned curiosity 
only increased his bad temper. At last, with his 
habitual shrug of the shoulders, he was taking up his 
brushes, when some words were stammered amidst a 
rustling of bed clothes; the soft breathing was heard 
again, and this time he yielded to the temptation, 
dropping his brushes, and putting his head behind the 
screen. The sight that met his eyes rooted him to 
the spot, so fascinated that he muttered: “By the 
gods! by the gods!” 

The young girl, amidst the hot-house heat that 
came from the window, had partially tossed aside the 
sheets, and, overcome with the fatigue of a restless 
night, she now slept,* bathed in a flood of sunshine, so 
unconscious of everything that not a quiver stirred 
her. Her right arm was encircling her neck, her head 
in deep repose was thrown back in a charming pos- 
ture of abandonment, while her black tresses, unwound, 
enwrapped her like a dusky cloak. 

“By the gods, she is awfully fine! ” muttered Claude 
once more. 

There it was, in every point, the figure he had 
looked for in vain for his picture and almost in the 
right pose. She was rather slender, rather childishly 
spare, but so lithe and fresh. She was a real find. 

With a light step, Claude ran to take his box of 
crayons, and a large sheet of paper. Then, squatting 
on a low chair, he placed a portfolio on his knees 
and began to sketch with an air of perfect happiness. 


CLAUDE’S ADVENTURE. 


33 


All Ills trouble, all bis unliealtby curiosity vanished 
in the surprise of the artist, in his enthusiasm at the 
splendid flesh tints and well-set muscles. He had 
already forgotten the girl in his admiration of the 
delicately amber-hued shoulders. Face to face with 
nature, an uneasy mistrust of his powers made him 
feel small. So squaring his elbows, he became, as it 
were, a mere urchin, very good, attentive, and respect- 
ful. This lasted for about a quarter of an hour, during 
which he paused now and then, blinking at the figure 
before him. Being afraid, however, of her changing her 
position, he speedily set to work again, holding his 
breath, lest he might awaken her. 

Nevertheless, while applying himself to his work, 
vague fancies again began swarming in his mind. 
Who’could she be ? Assuredly not what he had thought, 
for she was too fresh looking. But why had she told 
him such an unbelievable story? Then he began to 
imagine other stories. . A beginner but lately arrived 
in Paris with a lover, who had abandoned her; or 
some young woman of the middle classes led into bad 
company by a female friend, and not daring to go 
home to her relatives; or else a drama more compli- 
cated still; something horrible, inexplicable, the truth 
of which he would never fathom. All these hypo- 
theses increased his perplexity. Meanwhile he began 
to sketch her face, studying it with care. The whole 
of its upper part, the clear forehead, smooth like a 
polished mirror, the small nose, with its delicately 
chiselled and nervous nostrils; denoted goodness and 
gentleness. One divined the sweet smile of the eyes 
beneath the closed lids; a smile that would light up 
the whole of her features. Unfortunately the lower 
part marred this expression of sweetness; the jaw 
was prominent, the lips, rather too full, almost showed 
the blood, over the strong white teeth. It was like a 
flash of passion, the harbinger of awakening woman- 
2 


84 


CLAUDE’S ADVENTUKE. 


hood, still unconscious of itself amidst those traits of 
childlike softness. 

Suddenly a shiver ran like a ripple over the satin- 
like skin. The girl had perhaps felt this man’s look 
mentally dissecting her. She opened her eyes very 
wide and uttered a cry: 

“Ah I great heavens!” 

A sudden terror paralyzed her, as it were, at the 
sight of this strange room, of this young man in his 
shirt-sleeves crouching in front of her and devouring 
her with his eyes. With the impulse of despair she 
pulled up the counterpane, and kept it tight over her 
shoulders with both arms, her blood sent coursing so 
violently by the anguish of modesty that the burning 
flush on her cheeks spread in a rosy flow. 

“Well, what’s the matter?” cried Claude, angrily, 
his pencil suspended in mid-air; “what wasp has stung 
you now?” 

She neither spoke or stirred, but remained doubled 
up almost, with the counterpane tightly wrapped 
round her throat, her body gathered up and scarcely 
showing its outline beneath the bed-clothes. 

“I won’t eat you, will I? Come, just put yourself 
as you were, there’s a good girl.” 

Again she blushed up to her very ears. At last 
she stammered: “Oh, no, monsieur, no — pray!” 

But he began to lose his temper altogether. One of 
the fits of anger to which he was subject was coming 
upon him. Her obstinacy seemed stupid to him. 

“What does it matter to you, say? Where’s the 
harm?” 

Then she began to sob, which made him altogether 
angry, in despair before his sketch, losing his head at 
the thought that he would not be able to finish it, 
that this girl’s prudishness would prevent him from 
getting a capital study for his picture. 

“Well, you won’t eh? But it’s idiotic. For whom 


CLAUDE’S ADVENTURE. 


35 


do you take me? Did I as mucli as come near you? 
Besides, listen, it is very unkind of you to refuse me 
this service, because, after all, I sheltered you!” 

She only continued to cry, her head buried in the 
pillow. 

“I assure you that I am very much in want of this 
sketch, else I wouldn’t worry you.” 

He was surprised at the girl’s tears, and ashamed 
at having been so rough with her, so he held his 
tongue, at last, feeling embarrassed, and let her have 
time to recover herself a bit. Then he began again, 
in a very gentle tone: 

“ W ell, as it annoys you, let’s say no more about it. 
But if you only knew. I’ve got a figure in my pic- 
ture which doesn’t make headway at all, and you 
were just in the very note. As for me, when it’s a 
question of painting, I’d kill father and mother. Well, 
you’ll excuse me, won’t you? And if you’d wish me 
to be very nice, you’d just give me a few minutes 
more. Ho, no; keep quiet as you are; I don’t want 
the bust — I don’t want it. Only the head — nothing 
but the head. If I could finish that, it would be all 
right. Keally now be kind; put your arm as it was 
before, and I’ll be very grateful to you — grateful all 
my life long.” 

It was he who was supplicating now, pitifully wav- 
ing his pencil amid the emotion of his artistic crav- 
ing. Besides, he had not stirred, but remained crouch- 
ing on his low chair, at a distance from the bed. At 
last she risked the ordeal and uncovered her tranquil- 
lized face. What else could she do? She was at his 
mercy, and he looked so wretchedly unhappy. 

nevertheless she still hesitated, a last scruple. Then, 
without saying a word, she slowly brought her bare 
arm from beneath the clothes and again slipped it 
under her head, taking care, however, to hold the 
clothes with the other hand tightly round her throat. 


36 


CLAUDE’S ADVENTURE. 


“Ah! how kind you are! I’ll make haste, you will 
be free in a minute.” 

He bent over his drawing, and only looked at her 
now and then with the glance of the painter for 
whom the woman has disappeared, and who only sees 
the model. At first she became pink again; the con- 
sciousness that she showed that bare arm, that small 
part of herself which she would have shown in a 
ball-room, without thinking about it, filled her with 
confusion. Nevertheless the young man seemed so 
reasonable that she became altogether reassured. The 
blush left her cheeks, her lips parted with a vague, 
confiding smile. And between her half-opened eyelids 
she began to study him. How he had frightened her 
the night before with his thick brown beard, his large 
head, his impulsive gestures. And yet he was not 
ugly; she even discovered in his small eyes a great 
fund of tenderness, while his nose altogether surprised 
her. It was a finely-cut woman’s nose, almost lost in 
the bristling hair on his lips. He was slightly shak- 
ing with a nervous anxiety that made his pencil seem 
a living thing in his hand, and which touched her 
without her knowing why. She felt sure he was not 
bad-natured, his brutal ways arose from bashfulness. 
She did not analyze all this very clearly, but she 
divined it, and she began to put herself at her ease, 
as if she were with a friend. 

Nevertheless, the studio continued to frighten her a 
little. She cast sidelong glances around it, astonished 
at so much disorder and abandonment. Before the 
stove the cinders of the last winter still lay in a heap. 
Besides the bed, the small washstand, and the couch, there 
was no other furniture than an old dilapidated oaken 
wardrobe and a large deal table, littered with brushes, 
colors, dirty plates, a spirit lamp, atop of which was a 
saucepan, with shreds of vermicelli sticking to its 
sides. Some rush-bottomed chairs, their seats the 


Claude’s adventure. 


87 


worse for wear, were scattered about beside spavined 
easels. Near the divan the candle of the night before 
was lying on the floor, which seemed not to have been 
swept for at least a month. There was only the cuckoo 
clock, an enormous one, its dial illuminated with crim- 
son flowers, that looked clean and bright, ticking 
sonorously all the while. But what especially frightened 
her were the sketches hanging from the walls, without 
frames, a serried array that reached to the floor, where 
they mingled with heaps of canvases thrown about 
anyhow. She had never seen such terrible painting, 
coarse, glaring, with a violence of color that jarred 
upon her like a carter’s oath heard on the doorstep 
of an inn. She cast down her eyes, and yet she was 
attracted by a picture, the back of which was turned 
to her. It was the large canvas at which the painter 
was working, and which he pushed against the wall 
every night, the better to judge it on the morrow in 
the *surprise of the first glance. What could it hide, 
that one, seeing that he did not even dare to show it? 
And through the vast room, the sheet of burning sun- 
light, falling straight from the window panes, unchecked 
by any. blind, spread with the flow of molten gold on 
ail the broken-down furniture, the devil-may-care shab- 
biness of which it set in still bolder relief. 

Claude, upon whom this continued silence began to 
weigh, wanted to say something, no matter what, first, 
in order to be polite, and more especially to divert 
her attention from her pose. But cudgel his brain as 
he would, he could only think of this question: 

“Pray, what is your name?” 

She opened her eyes, which she had closed, as if 
going to sleep again. 

“Christine.” 

At this he seemed surprised. Neither had he told 
her his name. Since the night before they were there 
without knowing each other. 


88 


CLAUDE’S ADVENTURE. 


“My name is Claude.” 

And, having looked at her just at that moment, he 
saw her burst into a pretty laugh. It was the sud- 
den, merry peal of a big girl still nothing more than 
a hoyden. She considered this tardy exchange of 
names rather droll. Then something else amused her. 

“How funny — Claude, Christine — they begin with 
the same letter.” 

They were both silent once more. He was blink- 
ing at his work, entirely lost in it, feeling at a loss 
how to continue the conversation. He fancied that 
she was beginning to get tired and uncomfortable, and 
in his fear at her stirring, he said at random, merely 
to occupy her thoughts: “It feels rather warm.” 

This time she checked her laughter, her natural 
gayety that revived and burst forth in spite of her- 
self, since she had become reassured. But the heat 
was so oppressive that she felt as if in a bath, her 
skin moist and bleaching, like the milky-white petals 
of a camellia. 

“Yes, it feels rather warm,” she said, seriously, 
though mirth was dancing in her eyes. 

Whereupon Claude continued with a good-natured 
air: 

“It’s the sun falling straight in; but, after all, it 
does one good, a flood of sunshine on one’s skin. We 
could have done with some of it last night at the 
door, couldn’t we?” 

Both burst out laughing, and he, delighted at hav- 
ing hit upon a subject of conversation, questioned her 
about her adventure, without, however, feeling inquis- 
itive, and caring little to discover the real truth, only 
intent upon prolonging the sitting. 

Christine simply, and in a few words, related what 
had befallen her. The previous day she had left 
Clermont early in the morning for Paris, where she 
was to have a situation as reader and companion to 


CLAUDE’S ADVENTURE. 


the widow of a general, Madame Yanzade, a rich 
old lady, who lived at Passy. The train was timed 
to reach Paris at ten minutes past nine in the even- 
ing, and a maid was to meet her at the station. They 
had even settled by letter upon a means of recogni- 
tion. She was to wear a black hat with a gray 
feather in it. But, a little above Nevers, her train 
had come upon a goods train that had run off the 
rails, and the smashed trucks of which obstructed the 
line. There was quite a series of mishaps and delays. 
First an interminable wait in the carriages which tlie 
passengers had to leave at last, luggage and all, to 
trudge to the next station, three kilometres distant, 
where the authorities had decided to make up another 
train. By this time they had lost two hours, and 
another two were lost in the confusion caused by the 
accident, from one end of the line to the other, so 
that they reached the Paris terminus four hours behind 
time, at one o’clock in the morning. 

“Bad luck, indeed,” interrupted Claude, still skep- 
tical, though half-disarmed already, in his surprise at 
the neat way in which the girl arranged the compli- 
cations of her story. “And, of course, there was no 
one at the station to meet you?” he added. 

In fact, Christine had missed Madame Yanzade’s 
maid, who, no doubt, had grown tired of waiting. She 
told Claude of her utter helplessness in the Lyons 
station, that large, strange, dark and empty hall, which 
soon became deserted at that hour. She had not 
dared to take a cab at first, but kept walking up and 
down, carrying her small bag, still hoping that some 
one would come for her. But at last she made up 
her mind; too late, however, for there only remained 
one driver, very dirty and smelling of drink, who 
prowled round her, offering his cab in a knowing, 
impudent way. 

“Yes, I know, a dawdler,” said Claude, getting as 


40 


Claude’s adventuke. 


interested as if he were present at the realization of a 
fairy tale. “Then you got into his cab?” 

Looking up to the ceiling, Christine continued, with- 
out shifting her position: 

“He made me; he called me his little dear, and 
frightened me. When he found out that I was going 
to Passy, he became very angry, and whipped his horse 
so hard that I was obliged to hold on by the doors. 
After that I felt more easy, because the cab trundled 
along all right through the lighted streets, and I saw 
people about. At last I recognized the Seine, though 
I was never in Paris before, but I had looked at a 
map. Naturally I thought he would keep along the 
quay, when I was made very frightened again by 
noticing that we crossed a bridge. Just then it began 
to rain, and the cab, which had got into a very dark 
turning, suddenly stopped. It was the driver getting 
down from his seat, and wanting to come inside with 
me. He said it was raining too hard.” 

Claude burst out laughing. He no longer doubted. 
She could not have invented that driver. And as she 
suddenly stopped, somewhat confused, he said: “All 
right, he was having a joke.” 

“I jumped out at once by the other door,” resumed 
Christine. “Then he began to swear at me, saying 
that we had arrived, and that he would tear my bon- 
net from my head if I did not pay him. It was rain- 
ing in torrents, and the quay was absolutely deserted. 
I was losing my head and pulled out a five-franc 
piece. Whereupon he whipped his horse and drove 
off, taking my little bag, which luckily contained 
nothing but two pocket-handkerchiefs, part of a cake, 
and the key of my trunk, left behind in the train.” 

“ But you ought to have taken his number,” ex- 
claimed the artist indignantly. In fact he now remem- 
bered to have been brushed against by a cab rattling 
along furiously while he was crossing the Pont Louis 


CLAUDE’S ADVENTURE. 


41 


Philippe, amid the downpour of the storm. And he 
wondered at the look of improbability truth often as- 
sumed. The story he had conjured up as being the 
most simple and logical was utterly stupid by the side 
of the natural and infinite chain of combinations to be 
met with in life. 

“You may imagine howl felt under this doorway,” 
concluded Christine. “ I knew well enough that I was 
not at Passy, and that I should have to spend the 
night there, in this terrible Paris. And there was the 
tliunder and the lightning, those horrible blue and red 
flashes, showing me things that made me tremble.” 

She had closed her eyelids once more ; she shivered, 
and the color left her cheeks, as in her fancy she again 
beheld the tragic city, that line of quays stretching 
away in a furnace-like blaze, that deep moat of the 
river, with its leaden waters careering along, obstructed 
by immense black masses, lighters looking like life- 
less whales, and bristling with motionless cranes 
stretching forth their gallows-like arms. Was that a 
welcome ? 

Again there was a silence. Claude had resumed 
his drawing. But she became restless, her arm was 
getting stiff. 

“ Just put your elbow a little lower, please^” said 
Claude. Then, with an air of concern, as if to excuse 
his curtness: “Your parents will be very uneasy, if 
they have heard of the accident.” 

“I have no parents.” 

“What? Neither father nor mother? You are all 
alone in the world?” 

“Yes, all alone.” 

She was eighteen years old, and had been bom in 
‘ Strasburg, quite by chance though, between two changes 
of garrison, for her father was a soldier. Captain Halle- 
grain. Just as she entered upon her twelfth year, the 
captain, a Gascon, hailing from Montauban, had died 


42 CLAUDE’S ADVENTURE. 

at Clermont, where lie had settled, when paralysis of 
the legs obliged him to retire from active service. 
For nearly five years after that, her mother, a Paris- 
ian by birth, had remained in this provincial town, 
managing as well as she could with, her scant pension, 
but eldng it out by painting fans, in order to bring 
up her daughter like a lady. She had died fifteen 
months previously, leaving her child penniless and 
unprotected, without a friend, save the Superior of 
the Sisters of the Visitation, who had kept her with 
them. She had come straight from the convent, the 
Superior having succeeded in procuring her the situa- 
tion of reader and companion to her old friend, Mad- 
ame Yanzade, who was almost blind. 

At these additional particulars, Claude sat absolutely 
speechless. This convent, this well-bred orphan, this 
adventure, taking so romantic a turn, made him relapse 
into his old embarrassment, into his former awkward- 
ness of gesture and speech. He had left off' drawing, 
and sat looking with downcast eyes at his sketch. 

“Is Clermont pretty?” he asked, at last. 

“Hot very, it’s a gloomy town. Besides, I do not 
know; I scarcely ever went out.” 

She was resting on her elbow, and continued, in a 
very low voice, as if talking to herself — in a voice 
broken, as it were, by the sobs of her bereavement: 

“Mamma, who was not very strong, killed herself 
with work. She spoilt me; nothing was too good 
for me. I had all sorts of masters, but I did not get 
on very well; first, because I fell ill, then because I 
paid no attention. I was always laughing and skip- 
ping about like a featherbrain. I didn’t care for music, 
and the piano gave me the cramp in my arms. The 
only thing I cared about at all was painting.” 

He raised his hand and interrupted her. “Then 
you can paint?” 

“Oh, no; I know nothing at all. Mamma, who was 


CLAUDE’S ADVENTURE. 


43 


very talented, made me do a little bit of water-color, 
and I sometimes helped her with the backgrounds of 
her fans. She painted some lovely ones.” 

In spite of herself, she cast a glance round the 
room, and on the startling sketches with which the 
walls seemed ablaze, as it were, and her limpid eyes 
became troubled again with uneasy surprise at this 
brutal style of painting. From where she lay she 
could see the study of herself which the painter had 
begun, and her consternation at the violent tones, at 
the rough pastel strokes, with which the shadows 
were dashed off, prevented her from asking to look 
at it closer. She was, besides, getting very uncom- 
fortable in this bed, where she was broiling; she was 
fidgetting with the idea of going off, putting an end 
to all these things that seemed, ever since the night 
before, so much of a dream. 

Claude, no doubt, became aware of this discomfort. 
A sudden feeling of shame brought with it one of 
compunction. He put away his unfinished sketch, 
and said, very quickly: “Much obliged for your 
kindness, mademoiselle. Forgive me, I have really 
abused it. Yes, indeed; pray get up. It’s time for 
you to look for your friends.” 

And without appearing to understand why she did 
not follow his advice, but hid her bare arm more 
and more in proportion to his coming nearer, he still 
insisted upon her getting up. Then, as the real state 
of things struck him, he swung his arms about like 
a madman, replaced the screen, and went to the far 
end of the studio, where he began noisily setting his 
crockery in order, so that she might jump out and 
dress herself, without fear of being overheard. 

Amidst the din he had thus raised, he failed to hear 
her hesitating voice, “ Monsieur, monsieur — ” 

At last he did hear: 


44 


CLAUDE’S ADVENTUEE. 


“ Monsieur, would you be so kind — I can’t fina my 
stockings.” 

Claude hurried forward. What had he been think- 
ing about? What was she to do behind that screen 
without her stockings and skirts, which he had spread 
out in the sunlight? The stockings were dry, he as- 
sured himself of the fact by softly rubbing them to- 
gether, and he handed them to her across the partition, 
again noticing her arm, bare, plump and rosy like 
that of a child. Then he threw the skirts on the foot 
of the bed, pushed her boots forward, leaving nothing 
but her bonnet suspended from the easel. She had 
thanked him and that was all ; he scarcely distin- 
guished the rustling of her clothes and the discreet 
splashing of water. Still, he continued to concern 
himself about her. 

“ You will find the soap in a saucer on the table. 
Open the drawer and take a clean towel. Do you 
want more water? I’ll give you the pitcher.” 

Suddenly the idea that he was blundering again 
exasperated him. 

“ There, there, I am only worrying you. I will leave 
you to your own devices. Do as if you were at home.” 

And he continued to potter about among the crock- 
ery. He was debating with himself whether he should 
ask her to stay to breakfast. He ought not to let 
her go like this. On the other hand, if she did stay, 
he would never get done ; he would lose the whole of 
his morning. Without deciding anything, when he 
had lighted his spirit lamp, he washed his saucepan 
and began to make some chocolate. He thought it 
more distingue, feeling rather ashamed of his vermi- 
celli, which he mixed with bread and soused with oil 
as people do in the South. However, he was still 
breaking the chocolate into bits, when he uttered a 
cry of surprise, “ What, already ? ” 

It was Christine who had pushed back the screen. 


CLAUDE’S ADVENTURE. 


45 


and who appeared, looking neat and correct in her 
black dress, duly laced and buttoned up, equipped, as 
it were, in a jiffy. Her rosy face did not even show 
traces of the water, her thick hair was twisted in a 
knot at the back of her head, not a single hair out of 
place. And Claude remained open-mouthed before 
this miracle of quickness, before this evidence of femi- 
nine skill in dressing well and promptly. 

“The deuce, if you go about everything in that 
way!” 

lie found her taller and handsomer than he had 
fancied. But what struck him most was her look of 
quiet decision. She was evidently no longer afraid of 
him. It seemed as though on jumping out of that 
tumbled bed, where she felt herself defenceless, she had 
redonned her armor, together with her dress and boots. 

She smiled and looked him straight in the face. 
Whereupon he said what he was still reluctant to 
say: 

“You’ll breakfast with me, won’t you?” 

But she refused. “No, thank you. I am going to 
the station, where my trunk must have arrived by 
now, and then I shall drive to Passy.” 

It was in vain he told her that she must be hungry, 
that it was unreasonable for her to go out without 
having eaten something. 

“Well, if you will not. I’ll go down and fetch you a 
cab.” 

“Pray don’t take such trouble.” 

“But you can’t go such a distance on foot. Let me, 
at least, take you to the cabstand, as you don’t know 
Paris.” 

“No, really I do not want you. If you wish to 
oblige me, let me go away by myself.” 

She had evidently made up her mind. She no 
doubt, shrank from the idea of being seen with a man, 
even by strangers. She meant to remain silent about 


46 


CLAUDE’S ADVENTURE. 


the previous night, she meant to tell some falsehood 
and keep the recollection of her adventure to herself. 
He made a violent gesture, which was tantamount to 
sending her to the devil. Good riddance; it suited 
him better not to have to go down. But he felt hurt 
at heart, and considered that she was ungrateful. 

“As you please, then. I shan’t resort to force,” he 
said. 

At these words, Christine’s vague smile became 
more accentuated, and the pretty corners of her lips 
were slightly lowered. She did not reply, but took 
her bonnet and looked round in search of a glass. 
Failing to find one, she tied the strings as best she 
could. Her arms uplifted, she arranged and smoothed 
the ribbons leisurely, her face turned to the golden 
rays of the sun. Somewhat surprised, Claude looked 
in vain for the traits of childish softness he had just 
drawn; the upper part of her face, her clear, fore- 
head, her gentle eyes had become less conspicuous; 
and now the lower part stood out, with its sensual 
jaw, its ruddy mouth and superb teeth. And still 
she smiled with that enigmatical, girlish smile which 
was, perhaps, an ironical one. 

“At any rate,” he said, in a vexed tone, “I do not 
think you have anything to reproach me with.” 

At this she could not help laughing, with a slight, 
nervous laugh. 

“Ho, no, monsieur, not in the least.” 

He continued to stare at her, fighting the battle of 
inexperience and bashfulness over again, and fearing 
that he had been ridiculous. What in the world 
could this big girl know? No doubt what every 
schoolgirl knows — everything and nothing — a depth 
not to be sounded, the mysterious hatching of the 
heart and the senses which no one witnesses. Had 
this girl, a combination of modesty and sensuality, 
awoke to consciousness, with mingled curiousness and 


CLAUDE’S ADVENTURE. 


47 


fear of man, amidst the unrestrained surroundings of 
artist life? Now that she no longer trembled at him, 
had she become contemptuously surprised at having 
trembled at all? What! not the slightest attempt at 
courtship, not even a kiss on her finger-tips? The 
bearish indifference of this young man, which she had 
felt, to be sure, must have hurt in her the woman 
which she was not as yet; and now she was going off. 

“You were saying,” she resumed, again becoming 
sedate, “that the cabstand is at the end of the bridge 
on the opposite quay ? ” 

“ Yes, at the spot where there is a clump of trees.” 

She had finished tying her bonnet strings, and stood 
ready to go, gloved, her hands hanging by her side, 
and yet she did not go, but stared straight in front 
of her. Her eyes having lighted on the large canvas 
turned to the wall, she felt a wish to see it, but did 
not dare to ask. Nothing detained her; still she 
seemed to be looking round as if she had a sensation* 
of having forgotten something — a nameless something. 
At last she went towards the door. 

Claude was already opening it, and a small loaf 
placed against the post tumbled into the studio. 

“You see,” he said, “ you ought to have stopped to 
breakfast with me. My doorkeeper brings the bread 
up every morning.” 

She again refused with a shake of the head. When 
she was on the landing, she turned round and 
remained quite still for a moment. Her gay smile had 
come back ; she was the first to hold out her hand. 

“ Tiiank you, thank you very much.” 

He had taken her small gloved hand within his 
large one all pastel-stained as it was. Both hands 
remained like that for a few moments, closely pressed 
and shaking each other cordially. The young girl was 
still smiling at him, and he had a question on the 
tip of his tongue: 


48 


Claude’s adventuke. 


‘‘When shall I see you again?” 

But he felt ashamed to ask, and after waiting awhile 
she withdrew her hand. 

“Adieu, monsieur.” 

“Adieu, mademoiselle.” 

Christine, without another glance, was already 
descending the steep ladder, the steps of which creaked, 
and Claude turned abruptly into his studio, closing the 
door with a bang and shouting to himself: “Ah I 
those confounded women!” 

He was furious, furious with himself, furious with 
every one. Kicking about the furniture, he continued 
to ease his feelings in a loud voice. Was not he 
right never to allow one to cross his threshold? They 
only turned a fellow’s head. What proof had lie 
after all that the one with the innocent look, just 
gone, had not fooled him most abominably? And he 
had been silly enough to believe in so many stories. 
All his suspicions revived. No one would ever make 
him swallow the general’s widow, the railway accident 
and especially that cabman. Did such things ever 
happen in real life? Besides, that mouth of hers told 
a strange tale, and her look had been singular just 
when she was going. And if he could only have made 
out why she had told him all those falsehoods; but 
no, they were profitless ; inexplicable. It was art for 
art’s sake. How she must be laughing at him by 
this time! 

He violently folded up the screen and sent it flying 
into a corner. She had, no doubt, left plenty of dis- 
order. And when he found that everything was in 
its proper place — ^basin, towel, and soap — ^he flew into 
a rage because she had not made the bed. With a 
great deal of fuss he began to make it himself, lift- 
ing the still warm mattress in his arms, banging the 
scented pillow about with his fists, and feeling stifled 
by the warmth, the pure smell of youth rising from 


CLAUDE’S ADVENTURE. 


49 


the bed-clotlies. Then he, himself, had a good wash 
to cool his forehead, and in the damp towel he found 
the same virgin fragrance, the diffused softness of which 
oppressed him as it spread through the studio. Swear- 
ing all the while, he drank his chocolate from the 
saucepan, so excited, so eager to set to work, as to 
swallow large mouthfuls of bread without taking 
breath. 

“ Why, it’s enough to kill one here ! ” he suddenly 
exclaimed. “ It’s this confounded heat that’s making 
me ill!” 

After all, the sun had shifted, and it was far less 
hot. But he opened a small window on a level witli 
the roof, and breathed with profound relief the whiff 
of heated air that entered. He had taken up his 
sketch of Christine’s head, and for a long while he 
remained absorbed in looking at it. 

3 


50 


THE ARTIST AND HIS FRIENDS. 


CIIAPTEE II. 

THE ARTIST AND HIS FRIENDS. 

I T had struck twelve, and Claude was working at 
his picture, when there was a loud, familiar knock 
at the door. With an instinctive but voluntary impulse, 
the artist slipped Christine’s head, by the aid of which 
he was remodeling the principal figure of his picture, 
into a portfolio. After that he decided to open the 
door. 

“You, Pierre!” he exclaimed, “already!” 

Pierre Sandoz, a friend of his boyhood, was about 
twenty-two, very dark, with a round and determined 
head, a square nose, gentle eyes, set in energetic fea- 
tures, framed with a sprouting’ beard. 

“I breakfasted earlier than usual,” he answered, “in 
order to give you a long sitting. The deuce! you are 
getting on.” He had stationed himself in front of the 
picture, and he added almost immediately: “Hello! 
you have altered the character of your woman’s fea- 
tures ! ” 

Then came a long silence, they both kept staring 
at the canvas without stirring. It measured about 
five yards by three, and was entirely painted in, though 
but little of it had gone beyond the roughing-out. 
This roughing-out, hastily dashed ofl* was suyierb in 
its violence and ardent vitality of color. A flood of 
sunlight dipped into a forest clearing, with thick walls 
of verdure: to the left, a dark glade stretched away, 
with a small luminous speck in the far distance. On 
the grass, amidst the summer vegetation, a woman 


THE ARTIST AND HIS FRIENDS. 


51 


was stretclied, with one arm supporting her head, 
and inflating her bust, and she smiled with closed 
eyes in the golden shower that eddied around her. 
In the background, two other women, the one fair, the 
other dark, were wrestling with each other in fun, and 
stood out in their flesh tints against the green leaves. 
And, as the painter had wanted a dark contrast in 
the foreground, he had simply contented himself by 
seating there a gentleman, dressed in a black vel- 
veteen jacket. This gentleman had his back turned. 
One saw nothing of him but his left hand, with which 
he was supporting himself on the grass. 

“The woman promises well,” said Sandoz at last; 
“but, dash it, there will be a lot of work in all this.” 

Claude, with his eyes blazing in front of his pic- 
ture, made a gesture of confidence. “I’ve lots of time 
from now till the Salon. One can do a great deal of 
work in six months. And perhaps this time I’ll be 
able to prove that I am not a brute.” 

Wherewith he set up a whistle, inwardly pleased 
at the sketch he had made of Christine’s head, buoyed 
up by one of those flashes of hope whence he so 
often dropped more violently into his worries as an 
artist, whom a passion for nature was consuming. 

“That’ll do. No more idling,” he shouted. “As 
you’re here, let us set to.” 

Sandoz, out of pure friendship, and to save him the 
cost of a model, had offered to pose for the gentle- 
man in the foreground. In four or five Sundays, the 
only day on which he was free, the figure would be 
finished. He was already donning the velveteen jacket, 
when a sudden reflection made him stop. 

“But, I say, you haven’t really breakfasted, seeing 
that you were working when I came in. Just go 
down and have a cutlet while I wait here.” 

The idea of losing time revolted Claude. “I tell you 
I have breakfasted. Look at the saucepan. Besides, 


52 


TnE ARTIST AND HIS FRIENDS. 


you can see there’s a crust of bread left. I’ll cat it. 
Come, to work, to work, lazybones.” 

And he snatched up his palette and caught his 
brushes, saying, as he did so: “Dubuchc is coming 
to fetch us this evening, isn’t he?” 

“Yes, about five o’clock.” 

“Well, that’s all right then. We’ll go down to 
dinner at once when he comes. Are you ready? Tlie 
hand more to the left, and your head a little more 
forward.” 

Having arranged the cushions, Sandoz settled him- 
self on the couch in the attitude required. His back 
was turned, but all the same the conversation con- 
tinued for another minute, for he had that very morn- 
ing received a letter from Plassans, the little Provencal 
town where he and the artist had known each other 
when they were wearing out their first pairs of trousers 
on the eighth form of the college. Then they left off 
talking. The one was working, his thoughts engrossed 
by a world of his own, while the other grew stiff* and 
cramped in the sleepy fatigue of protracted immobilitv. 

It was only when Claude was nine years old that "a 
lucky chance had enabled him to leave Paris for the 
small nook of Provence where he had been born. His 
mother, a hard-working laundress, whom his ne’er-do- 
well father had scandalously deserted, had married an 
honest artisan, madly in love with her fair, smooth 
face. But, in spite of their endeavors, they failed to 
make both ends meet. Hence they gladly accepted the 
offer of an elderly and well-to-do townsman to send 
the lad to school and keep him with him. It was the 
generous freak of an eccentric amateur of painting, 
struck 'by the little figures the urchin had often daubed! 
And for seven years Claude had remained in the South 
at first as a boarder at the college, and afterwards liv- 
ing with his protector. The latter was found dead in 
his bed one morning. He left the lad a thousand francs 


THE ARTIST AND HIS FRIENDS. 


53 


a year, with the faculty of disposing of the principal 
when he reached the age of twenty-five. Claude, 
already seized with a passion for painting, immediately 
left the college, and, without even attempting to secure 
a bachelor’s degree, rushed to Paris, whither his friend 
Sandoz had preceded him. 

At the College of Plassans, while they were still in 
the lowest form, there had been three inseparables — 
Claude Lantier, Pierre Sandoz and Louis Dubuche. 
Sprung from three different classes of society, by no 
means similar in character, only born in the same year 
at a few months interval, they had become friends at 
once and for aye, impelled by certain secret affinities, 
the still vague promptings of a common ambition, the 
dawning consciousness of a superior intelligence, amidst 
the brutal set of dunces who maltreated them. San- 
doz’s father, a Spaniard, who had taken refuge in France 
in consequence of a political disturbance in which he 
had been mixed up, had started, close to Plassans, a 
paper mill with new machinery of his own invention. 
When he died, almost heart-broken by the petty local 
jealously that had sought to hamper him in every 
way, his widow found herself in a position so involved, 
and burdened with so many tangled law suits,' that the 
whole of her remaining means was swallowed up. She 
was a native of Burgundy. Yielding to her hatred of 
the Provencals, laying at their door even the slow 
paralysis from which she was suffering, she migrated 
to Paris with her son, who then supported her out of 
a meagre clerk’s salary, he, himself, haunted by the 
vision of literary glory. As for Dubuche, he was the 
son of a baker of Plassans. Pushed by his mother, 
a covetous and ambitious woman, he joined his friends 
in Paris later on. He was attending the courses at the 
School of Arts as a pupil architect, living as best he 
might with the final five-franc pieces that his parents 
staked on his head, with the obstinacy of usurers 


54 


THE ARTIST AND HIS FRIENDS. 


discounting the future at the rate of a hundred per 
cent. 

“Dash it!” exclaimed Sandoz, breaking the intense 
silence that hung upon the room. “The position is not 
easy ; my wrist feels broken. Can I move for a moment ? ” 

Claude let him stretch himself without answering. 
He was working at the velveteen jacket, laying on the 
color with thick strokes of the brush. Then stepping 
backward and blinking his eyes, he burst into loud 
laughter at some sudden reminiscence. 

Ah! those were happy days, worthy of the affec- 
tionate laughter with which they renewed their mem- 
ories. The walls of the studio happened to be hung 
with a series of sketches, which the painter had made 
during a recent trip. It seemed as if they were sur- 
rounded by the familiar horizons, the bright blue sky 
overhanging the brown country. Here stretched a 
plain dotted with stunted grayish olive trees, as far 
as the rosy network of the distant hills. There, 
between sunburnt russet slopes, the turbid Yiorne was 
almost running dry beneath the span of an old bridge, 
dust bepowdered, without a bit of green, save a few 
bushes, dying for want of moisture. Farther on, the 
mountain gorge of the Infernets showed its yawning 
chasm amidst tumbled rocks, struck by lightning, an 
immense chaos, a wild desert, rolling its stony billows 
as far as the eye could reach. Then came all sorts 
of well remembered nooks: the Yalley of Eepentance, 
narrow and shady, a refreshing oasis amid the calcined 
fields; the wood of Les Trois Bons-Dieux, with its 
hard, green, varnished pines shedding pitchy tears 
beneath the burning sun; the sheep walk of Bouffan, 
showing white, like a mosque, amidst the far-stretch- 
ing blood-red plain. And there were yet other sketches, 
bits of blinding, sinuous roads ; ravines, where the heat 
seemed even to wring bubbling perspiration from the 
pebbles; stretches of arid, thirsty sand, drinking up 


THE ARTIST AND HIS FRIENDS. 


55 


the river drop by drop; mole bills, goat paths and 
hill crests, half lost in the azure sky. 

“Hello!” exclaimed Sandoz, turning towards one 
sketch, “what’s that?” 

Claude, indignant, waved his palette. “What! don’t 
you remenaber? We were very nigh breaking our 
necks there. Surely you recollect the day we clam- 
bered from the very bottom of Jaumegarde with 
Dubuche? The rock was as smooth as your hand, 
and we had to cling to it with oar nails^ so that at 
one moment we could neither get up nor go down. 
When once atop and about to cook our cutlets, we, 
you and I, nearly came to blows,” 

Sandoz now remembered. “Yes, yes; each one had 
to roast his own cutlet on rosemary sticks, and, as 
mine took fire, you exasperated me by chaffing my 
cutlet, which was being reduced to cinders. 

They both shook with laughter, until the painter 
resumed his work, gravely concluding: “That’s all 
over, old man. There is to be no more idling at 
present. ” 

He spoke the truth. Since the three inseparables 
had realized their dream of being together in Paris, 
which they were bent upon conquering, their life had 
been terrifty hard. They had tried to renew the long 
walks of old. On certain Sunday mornings they had 
started on foot from the barri^re of Fontainebleau, had 
scoured the copses of Yerri^res, gone as far as Bievre, 
crossed the woods of Meudon and Bellevue, and 
returned by way of Greuelle. But they taxed Paris 
with spoiling their legs; they scarcely ever left the 
pavement now, entirely taken up as they were with 
their struggle for fortune. 

From Monday morning till Saturday night Sandoz 
sat fuming and fretting at the Mairie of the fifth 
arrondissement in a dark corner of the registry office 
for births, rooted to his stool by the sole thought of 


56 


THE ARTIST AND HIS FRIENDS. 


his mother, whom his hundred and fifty francs per 
month helped to keep somehow. Dubuche, anxious to 
pay his parents the interest of the moneys placed on 
his head, was ever on the lookout for some petty jobs 
among the architects, outside his studies at the School 
of Arts. As for Claude, thanks to his thousand francs 
a year, he had his full liberty; but the latter days of 
the month were terrible enough, especially if he had 
to share the fag-end of his allowance. Luckily he 
began to sell a bit; some tiny canvases, paid at the 
rate of ten and twelve francs apiece by Papa Mai gras, 
a wary picture-dealer. After all, he preferred starva- 
tion to making a mere commerce of his art, to manu- 
facturing portraits of tradesmen and their wives; to 
concocting conventional religious pictures, daubing 
blinds for restaurants, or sign-boards for midwives. 
When first he returned to Paris, he had a very large 
studio in the Impasse des Bourdonnais, but he had 
moved to the Quai de Bourbon from motives of econ- 
omy. He lived there like a savage, with an absolute 
contempt for everything that was not painting. He 
had fallen out with his family, who disgusted him ; 
he had ceased visiting his aunt, who kept a pork 
butcher’s shop near the Central Markets, because she 
looked too flourishing and plump. He only nursed a 
secret grief about the downfall of his mother, who was 
being eaten out of doors. 

Suddenly he shouted to Sandoz: “Will you be kind 
enough not to tumble to pieces?” But Sandoz de- 
clared that he was getting stiff* and jumped from the 
couch to stretch his legs a bit. They took ten min- 
ute’s rest, talking meanwhile about many things. 
Claude felt condescendingly good tempered. When 
his work went smoothly he became gradually excited 
and talkative; he, who painted with his teeth set, 
raging inwardly the moment he felt nature escaping 
him. Hence his friend had scarcely resumed his 


THE ARTIST AND HIS FRIENDS. 


57 


attitude before be went on chattering, without, how- 
ever, missing a* stroke of his brush. 

“Going on all right, old boy, isn’t it? You look 
all there in it. Oh, the brutes, I’ll just see whether 
they’ll refuse me this time! I am more severe to 
myself than they are to themselves, I’m sure of it; and 
when I pass one of my own pictures to myself, it is 
more serious than if it had passed before all the hang- 
ing committees on earth. You know my picture of 
the markets, with the two urchins tumbling about on 
a heap of vegetables? Well, I’ve scratched it out, it 
didn’t come right. I found that I had got hold of a 
machine,* a deal too heavy for my strength. But, 
never you fear. I’ll take the subject up again some 
day, when I know better, and I’ll take up others, 
machines which will knock them with surprise. Listen 
to this, old man : when one of those whipper-snappers 
has built up a torso like the one over there, he may 
come and tell me, and we’ll have a talk together.” 

With the end of his brush he pointed to a figure 
suspended from the wall near the door. It was really 
magnificent — with a masterly breadth of coloring. By 
its side there were also some other admirable sketches, 
a girl’s feet, exquisite with delicate truthfulness. In 
these rare moments of content he felt proud of these 
few studies, the only ones that satisfied him, that, as 
it were, foretold the great painter, admirably gifted, 
but hampered by sudden and inexplicable fits of 
impotency. 

With sabre-like strokes at the velveteen jacket, he 
violently continued lashing himself with his uncom- 
promising theories that respected nobody. 

“They are all so many daubers of penny prints, 
who have stolen their reputations; a set of idiots or 
knaves on their knees before public imbecility. Not 


* French artists, playwrights and novelists invariably call their produc- 
tions “machines.’’ 


58 


THE ARTIST AND HIS FRIENDS. 


one among tliem dares to give the Philistines a slap 
in the face.” 

He ceased and withdrew a few steps to judge of 
the effect of his picture, becoming absorbed in it, as 
it were, for a moment, and then resuming: 

“ Yes, nowadays we want something different. 
What? I don’t know exactly. If 1 did know and 
could do it I should be clever, indeed. No one else 
would be in it with me. All I do know and feel is 
that Delacroix’s grand romantic scenes are foundering 
and splitting up, that Courbet’s black painting already 
has an indoor odor, the mustiness of the studio that 
the sun never penetrates. We, perhaps, want the sun, 
the open air, a clear, young style of painting men and 
things as they appear in the real light. In short, I, 
myself, am unable to say what our painting should 
be; the painting that our eyes of to-day should exe- 
cute and behold.” 

His voice again fell ; he stammered and was unable 
to explain the formulas of the future rising within 
him. A great silence fell upon both while Claude 
continued to work at the velveteen jacket, quivering 
all the time. 

Sandoz had been listening to him without budging 
from his position. With his back turned, as if speak- 
ing in a kind of dream to the wall, he said, slowly: 

“No; one does not know, and still we ought to 
know. But each time a professor wanted to impress 
a truth upon me, I mistrustfully revolted, reflecting: 
‘ He is deceiving himself or deceiving me.’ Their ideas 
exasperate me. It seems to me that truth is larger, 
more general. How beautiful would it be if one could 
devote the whole of one’s existence to one single work, 
into which one would endeavor to put everything, the 
beasts of the field as well as mankind ; in short, a 
kind of immense ark. Arid not in the order indicated 
by manuals of Philosophy, or according to the idiotic 


THE ARTIST AND HIS FRIENDS. 


59 


hierarchy on which we pride ourselves, but according to 
the full current of universal life ; a world in which we 
should be nothing more than an accident, in which the 
passing cur, even the stones of the roads, would com- 
plete and explain us. In sum, the grand whole, with- 
out low or high, without clean or unclean, such as it 
works in reality. Assuredly, it is to science that poets 
and novelists should address themselves — it is the only 
possible source to-day. But what are we to take from 
it? How are we to march with it? The moment I 
begin to think about that sort of thing I feel that I 
am floundering! Ah, if I only knew! What a series 
of books I would hurl at the heads of the crowd 1 ” 

He also became silent. The previous winter he had 
published his first book; a series of mild sketches, 
brought with him from Plassans, among which only a 
few rougher notes indicated the mutineer, the lover of 
truth and power. Since then he was feeling his way, 
questioning himself in the conflict of the confused ideas 
throbbing in his brain. At first, smitten with the 
thought of undertaking something herculean, he had 
conceived the plan of a genesis of the universe, in 
three phases or parts ; the creation narrated according 
to science ; the history of mankind, supervening at the 
appointed hour and playing its part in the chain of 
beings ; the future — the beings constantly succeeding 
each other, and themselves finishing the creation of the 
world by the endless labor of life. But he had grown 
lukewarm when confronted by the risky hypotheses of 
this third phase; and now he was looking out for a 
more restricted, more human framework, in which, how- 
ever, he intended that his vast ambition should find 
room. 

“Ah, to be able to see and to paint- everything,” 
exclaimed Claude, after a long interval. “To have 
miles upon miles of walls to cover, to decorate rail- 
way stations, markets, municipal offices, everything 


60 


THE ARTIST AND HIS FRIENDS. 


that will be built, when architects are no longer 
idiots. Only strong heads and strong muscles will be 
wanted, for there will be no lack of subjects. Life 
such as it runs about the streets, the life of the rich 
and the poor, in the market places, on the race- 
courses, on the boulevards, in the populous alleys; 
every trade being plied, every passion portrayed in 
full daylight, and the peasants, the beasts of the fields, 
the landscapes — you shall see it all, unless I am a 
downright brute. My very hands are itching to do 
it. Yes! the whole of modern life! Frescoes as high 
as the Pantheon! A series of canvases big enough 
to burst the Louvre!” 

Whenever they were thrown together, the painter 
and the author generally reached that state of exalta- 
tion. They spurred each other mutually, they went 
mad with glory; and there was such a burst of youth, 
such a passion for work about their plans, that they 
themselves often smiled afterwards at these grand, 
proud dreams which enlivened them and made them 
gain in suppleness and strength. 

Claude, who had stepped back as far as the wall, 
remained leaning against it, contemplating his work. 
Seeing this, Sandoz, broken with fatigue, left the 
couch and joined him. Then both kept looking with- 
out saying a word. The gentleman in the velveteen 
jacket was entirely roughed out. His hand more 
advanced than the rest, furnished a pretty fresh patch 
of flesh color amid the grass, and the dark mass of the 
coat stood out so vigorously that the small silhouettes 
in the background, the two little women wrestling in 
the sunlight, seemed to have retreated further into the 
luminous quivering of the glade. The principal figure, 
the recumbent woman, scarcely more than outlined, 
floated about like some aerial, indistinct being, an 
eagerly desired Eve sprung from the earth, with her 
features vaguely smiling and with eyelids closed. 


THE ARTIST AND HIS FRIENDS. 


61 


“Just tell me what you are going to call it?” asked 
Sandoz. 

“‘lu the Open Air,’” replied Claude, somewhat 
curtly. 

The title sounded rather technical to the writer, 
who, in spite of himself, was sometimes tempted to 
introduce literature into pictorial art. 

“‘In the Open Air!’ That doesn’t suggest any- 
thing.” 

“There is no occasion for it to suggest anything. 
Some women and a man are reposing in a wood in 
the sunlight. Does not that suffice? Don’t fret, it 
suffices to produce a masterpiece!” 

He flung back his head and muttered between his 
teeth: “Dash it all! it’s very black still. I can’t get 
Delacroix out of my eye, do what I will. And this, 
the hand, that’s Courbet’s manner. Every one of us 
dabs his brush into the romantic sauce now and then. 
We had too much of it in our youth, we floundered 
in it up to our very chins. We shall need a jolly 
good wash to get clear of it altogether.” 

Sandoz shrugged his shoulders with a gesture of 
despair. He also bewailed the fact of having been 
born at the confluence of Hugo and Balzac, as he 
called it. Kevertlieless, Claude remained satisfied, in 
the happy excitement of a successful sitting. If his 
friend could give him two or three more Sundays like 
this, the man in the jacket would be all there. He 
had enough of him for the present. Both began to 
joke, for, as a rule, Claude almost killed his models, 
only letting them go when they were fainting, half 
dead with fatigue. He himself now very nigh dropped 
his legs bending under him, his stomach empty. And 
as the cuckoo clock struck five, he snatched at his 
crust of bread and devoured it. Thoroughly worn out, 
he broke it with trembling fingers, and scarcely chewed 
it, again standing before his picture, pursued by his 


62 


THE ARTIST AND HIS FRIENDS. 


idea to sucli a degree as to be unconscious even that 
be was eating. 

“Five o’clock,” said Sandoz, as be stretched himself, 
with bis arms upraised. “Let’s go and bave dinner. 
Here comes Dubucbe, just in time.” 

There was a knock at the door, and Dubucbe came 
in. He was a stout young fellow, dark, with regular 
but heavy features, close-cropped hair, and moustaches 
already full-blown. He shook hands with both his 
friends, and stopped before the picture, looking non- 
plused. In reality, this harum-scarum style of paint- 
ing upset him, such was the balance of his nature, 
such his reverence as a steady student for the estab- 
lished formulas of art; and it was only his feeling of 
friendship which, as a rule, prevented him from criti- 
cising. But this time the whole of his being revolted 
visibly. 

“Well, what is it? Dosen’t it suit you?” asked 
Sandoz, who was watching him. 

“Yes, oh, yes, it’s very well painted — but — ” 

“Well, speak it out. What is it that ruffles you?” 

“Not much ; only the gentleman who is fully dressed, 
amidst those women. People have never seen any- 
thing like that.” 

This sufficed to make both the others wild. Were 
there not a hundred pictures in the Louvre composed 
in a similar way? And, besides, if people had never 
seen anything like it, they would see it then. After 
all, they didn’t care a fig for the public! 

Not in the least disconcerted by these violent replies, 
Dubuche repeated, quietly: “The public will not under- 
stand, the public will think it risky, and it is risky.” 

“You wretched Philistine!” exclaimed Claude, exas- 
perated. “Well, they are making a famous idiot of 
you at the School of Arts. You weren’t such a fool 
formerly.” 

These were the current amenities of his two friends 


THE ARTIST AND HIS FRIENDS. 


63 


since -he attended the School of Arts. He thereupon 
beat a retreat, rather afraid of the turn the dispute 
was taking, and saved himself by belaboring the paint- 
ers in return. Certainly they were perfectly right in 
one thing, the painters were famous idiots at the 
School. But as for the architects, that was a different 
matter. Where was he to get his tuition, if not there? 
It would not prevent him from having ideas of his 
own later on. Wherewith he assumed a very revolu- 
tionary air. 

“All right,” said Sandoz, “the moment you apolo- 
gize, let’s go and dine.” 

But Claude had mechanically taken up a brush and 
set to work again. Beside the gentleman in the vel- 
veteen jacket the figure of the woman now seemed to 
fade away. Feverish, impatient, he traced a bold out- 
line round her so as to bring her forward. 

“Are you coming?” 

“In a minute; hang it, what’s the hurry? Just let 
me set this right, and I’ll be with you.” 

Sandoz shook his head and then he said very quietly, 
lest he should still further annoy him: “You are 
wrong to worry yourself like that, old man. Yes, you 
are used up, and have had nothing to eat, and you’ll 
only spoil your work, like you did the other day.” 

But the painter waved him off' with a peevish ges- 
ture. It was his old story; he did not know when to 
leave off*; he drugged himself, as it were, with work 
in his desire for an immediate result, in order to prove 
to himself that he held his masterpiece at last. 
Doubts had just driven him to despair in the midst 
of his delight at having terminated a successful sitting. 
Had he been right after all in making the velveteen 
jacket so prominent, and would not he fail after that 
to find the brilliant note necessary to his other figure? 
And rather than not know at once he would have 
dropped down dead on the spot. He feverishly drew 


64 


THE ARTIST AND HIS FRIENDS. 


Christine’s head from the portfolio where he had hid- 
den it, comparing, and assisting himself by means of 
this document derived from life. 

“Hallo!” exclaimed Dubuche, “where did you get 
this from? Who is it?” 

Claude, startled by the question, did not answer; 
then, without reflecting, he who usually told them 
everything, brusquely lied, yielding to a strange fit of 
compunction, to a feeling of delicacy to keep to him- 
self the adventure of the night. 

“Tell us, who is it?” repeated the architect. 

“Nobody at all — a model.” 

“A model! a very young one, isn’t she? She is very 
nice. I wish you would give me her address. Not 
for myself, but for a sculptor on the lookout for a 
Psyche. Have you got the address there?” 

And Dubuche turned to a corner of the grayish wall 
where several addresses of models were written in chalk, 
haphazard. The women especially left their cards in 
that way, in awkward, childish handwriting. Zoe 
Piedefer, 7 Eue Campagne-Premi^re, a big brunette 
who was getting fiabby, had scrawled her sign manual 
right across those of little Flore Beauchamp, 32 Eue 
de Laval, and of Judith Vaquez, 69 Eue du Eocher, 
a Jewess, both tolerably fresb, but too thin. 

“I say, have you got the address?” resumed 
Dubuche. 

Then Claude flew into a passion. “Don’t pester 
me! I don’t know and don’t care. You’re a nuisance 
with your worrying, just when a fellow wants to work.” 

Sandoz had not said a word. Surprised at first, he 
had only smiled. He had more tact than Dubuche, 
so he merely gave him an intelligent nod, and then 
they began to chafi*. They begged his pardon; the 
moment he wanted to keep her for his personal use, 
they would not ask him to lend her. Ha! ha! the 
scamp Avent in for pretty girls! And where had he 


THE ARTIST AND HIS FRIENDS. 


65 


picked that one np? In some petty mnsic-hall at 
Montmarte, or on the flagstones of the Place Maubert ? 

More and more embarrassed, Claude was getting 
fidgety at last. “What a couple of idiots you are! 
If you only knew what asses you are making of your- 
selves! That’ll do. You really make me sorry for 
both of you.” 

His voice sounded so stern that both became silent 
immediately, while he, after having once more scratched 
out the woman’s head, drew it anew and began to 
paint it after Christine’s, but with a feverish, unsteady 
touch that went at random. 

“Just give me another ten minutes, will you?” he 
repeated. “I will rough in the shoulders to be ready 
for to-morrow, and then we’ll go down.” 

Sandoz and Dubuche, knowing that it was of no 
use to prevent him from killing himself like this, 
resigned themselves. The latter lighted his pipe, and 
flung himself on the couch. He was the only one of 
the three that smoked; the other two had never taken 
kindly to tobacco, always feeling qualmish after a 
strong cigar. Then, when he was stretched on his 
back, his eyes mechanically watching the clouds of 
smoke he blew out, he began to talk about himself. 

“All the same, I’m lucky. There are so many of 
us scouring the town every day without getting the 
smallest job. The day before yesterday I discov- 
ered an architect who works for a large contractor. 
You can have no idea of such an ignoramus of an 
architect — a downright numskull, incapable even of 
tracing a plan. He gives me twenty -five sous an 
hour, and I set his houses upright for him. Just in 
time, too, for my mother sent me word that she was 
quite cleared out. Poor mother, what a lot of money 
I have to refund her!” 

As Dubuche was evidently talking to himself, chew- 
ing the cud of his everyday thoughts, his constant 

4 


66 


THE ARTIST AND HIS FRIENDS. 


preoccupation of making a rapid fortune, Sandoz did 
not even take the trouWe to listen to him. He had 
opened the little window, and seated himself on a 
level with the roof, feeling oppressed by the heat in 
the studio. But all at once he interrupted the architect. 

“I say, are you coming to dinner on Thursday? 
All the fellows will be there — ^Fagerolles, Mahoudeau, 
Jory, Gagniere.” 

Every Thursday quite a band met at Sandoz’s, friends 
from Plassans and otlmrs known in Paris, revolution- 
aries to a man, and all animated by the same passion- 
ate love of art. 

“Next Thursday? No, I think not,” answered 
Dubuche. “I am obliged to go to a dance at a fam- 
ily’s I know.” 

“ Where you expect to get hold of a dowry, I 
suppose?” 

“Well, it wouldn’t be such a bad spec.” 

He shook the ashes from his pipe in his left palm, 
and then suddenly raising his voice: 

“I almost forgot. I have had a letter from Pouil- 
laud.” 

“You, too! — well, I think he’s pretty well done for, 
Pouillaud. Another good fellow gone wrong.” • 

“Why gone wrong? He’ll succeed his father; he’ll 
spend his money quietly down there. He writes ration- 
ally enough. I always said he’d show us a thing or 
two, for all his practical jokes. Ah! that beast of a 
Pouillaud.” 

Sandoz, furious, was about to reply, when a despair- 
ing oath from Claude stopped him. The latter had 
not opened his lips since he had so obstinately resu- 
med his work. To all appearances he had not even 
listened. 

“ Curse it, I have failed again 1 Decidedly I’m a 
brute, I shall never do anything.” And in a fit of 
mad rage he wanted to rush at his picture to dash 


THE AKTIST AND HIS FKIENDS. 


67 


his fist through it. His friends had to hold him back. 
Why, it was simply childish to get into such a pas- 
sion. Would matters be improved when he had the 
mortal regret of having destroyed his work? Still 
shaking, he relapsed into silence, and looked at the 
canvas with an ardent and fixed gaze, blazing with 
the horrible agony of his powerlessness. He could 
produce nothing clear or lifelike; the woman’s breast 
was growing impasted with heavy coloring; the adored 
flesh which, in his dream, should have glowed, he was 
simply begriming it; he did not even succeed in get- 
ting the figure in the right focus. What the devil 
was the matter with his brain that he heard it burst- 
ing asunder, as it were, in his vain effort? Was he 
losing his sight that he was no longer able to see 
correctly? Were his hands no longer his that they 
refused to obey him? And he continued to wind him- 
self up, irritated by the hereditary mystery, which 
sometimes so greatly assisted his creative powers, but 
which, at others, reduced him to a state of sterile 
despair, such as to make him forget the first elements 
of drawing. And to feel giddy with vertiginous nausea, 
and yet to stand there still with the fury to create, 
when the power to do so fled with everything else, 
when everything seemed to founder around him, the 
pride of work, the dreamt*of glory, the whole of his 
existence ! 

“Look here, old boy,” said Sandoz at last, “we 
don’t want to worry you, but it’s half-past six, and 
we are starving. Be reasonable, and come down with 
us.” 

Claude was cleaning a corner of his palette. Then 
he emptied some more tubes on it, and replied by one 
single word, in a voice like thunder: “No!” 

For the next ten minutes no one said a word; the 
painter beside himself, wrestling with his picture, his 
two friends, sorry and anxious at this crisis, which 


68 


THE ARTIST AND HIS FRIENDS. 


they did not know how to allay. Then as there came 
a knock at the door, the arcliitect went to open it. 

“Hallo, it’s Papa Malgras!” 

The picture-dealer was a thick-set individual, with 
close-cropt, brush-like, white hair, and a red, splotchy 
face. He was wrapt in a very dirty old green coat, 
that made him look like an untidy cabman. In a 
husky voice, like a drunkard’s, he said: “I happened 
to pass along the quay, on the other side of the way, 
and I saw this gentleman at the window. So I came 
up.” 

Claude’s continued silence made him stop short. 
The painter had turned to his picture with an impa- 
tient gesture. Not that this silence in any way 
embarrassed the new comer, who, standing straight on 
his solid legs and feeling at home, carefully examined 
the new picture with his blood-shot eyes. Without 
the least embarrassment, he passed judgment upon it 
in one phrase, half ironic, half affectionate: “There’s 
a machine.” 

And seeing that no one said anything, he began to 
stroll quietly around the studio, looking along the 
walls. 

Papa Malgras, beneath a thick layer of grease and 
grime, was a very cute customer, with taste and scent 
for good painting. He never wasted his time or lost 
his way among mere mediocre daubers; he went 
straight, as if from instinct, to individualists, whose 
talent was contested still, but whose future fame his 
flaming drunkard’s nose smelt from afar. Added to 
this he was a ferocious hand at bargaining, and dis- 
played all the cunning of a savage in his efforts to 
secure, for a mere song, the pictures he coveted. 
True, he himself was satisfied with very honest profits, 
twenty per cent., thirty at the most. He based his 
calculations on the quick turning over of his small 
capital, never purchasing in the morning without 


THE ARTIST AND HIS FRIENDS. 


69 


knowing where to dispose of this purchase at night. 
As a superb liar, moreover, he was without his equal. 

Stuck close to the door, before the studies painted 
at the Boutin studio, he contemplated them in silence 
for a few moments, his eyes glistening with the enjoy- 
ment of a connoisseur, though trying to temper it 
beneath his heavy eyelids. Assuredly there was a 
great deal of talent and sentiment of life about this 
big crazy fellow, who wasted his time painting 
immense stretches of canvas. But there was no sale 
for that kind of stuft’ and he had already made his 
choice — a tiny sketch, a nook of the country round 
Plassans, delicate and violent at once, which he pre- 
tended not to notice. At last he drew near, and said 
in an off-hand way: 

What’s this ? Ah I yes, I know, one of the things 
you brought back with you from the South. It’s too 
crude. I still have the two I bought of you.” 

And he went on in mellow, long-winded phrases: 
“You’ll perhaps not believe me. Monsieur Lantier, but 
that sort of thing doesn’t sell at all, not at all. I’ve 
a set of rooms full of them. I’m always afraid of 
smashing something when I turn round. I can’t go 
on like that, honor bright; I shall have to go into 
liquidation, and I shall end my days in the hospital. 
You know me, eh? My heart is bigger than my 
pocket, and there’s nothing I like better than to 
oblige young men of talent like yourself. Oh, for the 
matter of that, you’ve got talent, and I keep on tell- 
ing them so — nay, shouting it to them — but what’s the 
good? They won’t bite, they won’t bite!” 

He was trying the emotional dodge, then, with tlie 
spirit of a man about to do something rash: “Well, 
it sha’n’t be said that I came in to waste your time. 
What do you want for that sketch ? ” 

Claude, still irritated, was painting nervously. He 


70 


THE ARTIST AND HIS FRIENDS. 


answered in a cnrt tone, without turning his head: 
“Twenty francs.” 

“Nonsense! Twenty francs! You must be mad ! You 
sold me the others at ten francs apiece — and to-day 
I won’t give a copper more than eight francs!” 

As a rule, the painter closed with him at once, 
ashamed and humbled at this miserable chaffering, glad 
also to get a little money now and then. But this 
time he was obstinate, and took to insulting the pic- 
ture-dealer, who, giving tit-for-tat, all at once dropped 
the formal “you” to assume the glib “thou,” denied 
him all talent, overwhelmed him with invective, and 
taxed him with ingratitude. Meanwhile he had taken 
from his pocket, one by one, three five-franc pieces, 
which, from a distance, he flung — as if playing at 
chuck-farthing — upon the table where they rattled 
among the crockery. 

“One, two, three — not one more, dost hear? — for 
there is already one too many, and I’ll take care to 
get it back ; I’ll deduet it from something else of 
yours, as I live. Fifteen, francs for that! Thou art 
wrong, my lad, and thou wilt be sorry for this dirty 
trick.” 

Exhausted, Claude let him take down the little 
canvas, which disappeared as if by magic in the capa- 
cious green coat. Had it dropped into a special pocket, 
or was it still reposing on Papa Malgras’ ample chest? 
Not the slightest protuberance indicated its whereabouts. 

Having accomplished his stroke. Papa Malgras 
abruptly calmed, went towards the door. But he 
suddenly changed his mind and came back. “Just 
iisten, Lantier,” he said, in the honeyest of tones, 
“I want a lobster painted. You really owe me that 
much after having skinned me. I’ll bring it to you, 
you’ll paint me a bit of still life from it, and keep it 
for your pains. You can eat it with your friends. 
It’s settled, isn’t it?” 


THE ARTIST AND HIS FRIENDS. 


71 


At this proposal Sandoz and Dubiiche, who up till 
now had listened inquisitively, burst into such mirtli- 
ful laughter that the picture-dealer himself became 
gay. Those confounded painters, they did themselves 
no good, they simply starved. What would become 
of the lazy beggars, if he, Papa Malgras, didn’t bring 
them a leg of mutton now and then, or a nice fresh 
plaice, or a lobster, with its garnish of parsley? 

“You’ll paint me my lobster, eh, Lantier? Much 
obliged.” 

And he stuck himself anew before the large roughed- 
out canvas, examining it with a smile of mingled 
derision and admiration. And at last he went off, 
repeating: “There’s a machine.” 

Claude wanted to take up his palette and brushes 
again. But his legs refused their service; his arms 
fell to his side, stiff* and as if pinioned there by some 
occult force. In the intense, melancholy silence that 
had followed the din of the dispute he staggered, dis- 
tracted, bereft of sight before his shapeless work. 

“I’m done for, I’m done for!” he gasped. “That 
swine has finished me off'!” 

The clock had just struck seven; he had been at 
work for eight mortal hours without tasting anything 
but a crust of bread, without taking a moment’s rest, 
on his legs, shaken by feverish excitement. And now 
the sun was setting, a shadow began to darken the 
studio where the twilight assumed a horrid, melancholy 
air. When the light went down like this on the crisis 
of a bad day’s work, it seemed to Claude as if the sun 
would never rise again, after having carried life, the 
jubilant joy of color, away with him. 

“Come,” implored Sandoz, gentle and tender in his 
brotherly compassion. “Come, there’s a good fellow.” 

Even Dubuche added: “You’ll see more clearly into 
it to-morrow. Come and dine.” 

For a moment Claude refused to surrender. He 


72 


THE ARTIST AND HIS FRIENDS. 


stood rooted to the spot, deaf to their friendly voices, 
morose in his obstinacy. 

What did he want to do, now that his tired fingers 
were no longer able to grasp the brush? He did not 
know, but, however powerless he might be, he was 
gnawed by the mad desire to go on working still, to 
create in spite of everything. Even if he did nothing, 
he would at least stay, he would not vacate the spot. 
Then he made up his mind, shaken as if by a big 
sob. He had firmly clutched hold of a very broad 
palette-knife, and with one deep, slow sweep he oblit- 
erated the woman’s head and bosom. It was a veri- 
table murder, a pounding of human flesh as it were ; 
the whole disappeared in a murky, muddj'' mash. By 
the side of the gentleman in the dark jacket, amidst 
the bright verdure, where the two little wrestlers so 
lightly tinted were disporting themselves, there was 
no longer aught of the headless and breastless woman 
but a mutilated trunk, a vague cadaverous stump, an 
indistinct, lifeless patch of dreamy flesh. 

Sandoz and Dubuche were already descending the 
stairs with a great clatter, and Claude followed them, 
fleeing his work, in agony at having to leave it thus 
disfigured by a gaping gash. 


BOHEMIAN LIFE. 


73 


CHAPTER III. 

BOHEMIAN LIFE. 

T he beginning of the week was disastrous to 
Claude. He had relapsed into one of those periods 
ot‘ self-doubt that made him hate painting, with the 
hatred of a lover betrayed, who overwhelms the faith- 
less one with insults although tortured by the uncon- 
trollable want of worshipping her. So on the Thursday, 
after three frightful days of fruitless and solitary 
struggle, he left home as early as eight in the morn- 
ing, banging his door violently, and so sick at heart 
with himself that he swore never to take up a brush 
again. When unhinged by one of these crises there 
was but one remedy — all oblivion of himself; to look 
up some comrades with whom to quarrel; above all, to 
walk about, to trudge across Paris, until the heat and 
the smell of the daily battle on her flagstones put 
heart into him again. 

On that day, like on every Thursday, he was to 
dine at Sandoz’s in company with other friends. But 
what was he to do until this evening? The idea of 
remaining by herself, of eating his heart out, dis- 
gusted him. He would have gone straight to his 
friend, but for knowing that the latter must be at 
his office. Then the thought of Dubuche came to 
him, but he hesitated, for their old friendship had 
lately been cooling down. He no longer felt the 
fraternity of earlier times of effort between them. He 
guessed that Dubuche lacked intelligence, that he 
was covertly hostile and was occupied with ambi- 


74 


BOHEMIAN LIFE. 


tions differing from his own. However he, Claude, 
must go somewhere. So he made up his mind, and 
repaired to the Kue Jacob, where the architect rented 
a small room on the sixth floor of a melancholy- 
looking house. 

Claude was already on the landing of the second 
floor, when the doorkeeper, calling him back, snap- 
pishly told him that M. Dubuche was not at home, 
that, in fact, he had stayed out all night. He slowly 
descended the stairs and found himself in the street, 
stupefied, as it were, by so prodigious an event as an 
escapade on the part of Dubuche. It was a piece of 
inconceivable bad luck. For a moment he strolled 
along aimlessly, overcome by this last blow. But as 
he turned into the Rue de Seine, not knowing which 
way to go, he suddenly recollected what his friend 
had told him about a certain night spent at the 
Dequersonni^re studio, a night of terrible hard work, 
the eve of the day on which the pupils’ prize draw- 
ings were to be deposited at the School of Arts. At 
once he walked towards the Rue du Four, where the 
studio was situated. So far he had carefully abstained 
from going there to fetch his friend Dubuche, from 
fear of the yells with which the profane were greeted. 
But now he made straight for it without flinching, 
his timidity giving way so thoroughly before the 
anguish of being alone that he felt ready to undergo 
any amount of insult could he but win a companion 
for his wretchedness. 

The studio was situated in the narrowest part of 
the Rue du Four, at the far end of a decrepit, tumble- 
down tenement. He had to cross two ill-smelling 
court-yards to reach a third, the width of which was 
taken up by a big closed shed, a vast outhouse made 
of deal boards and plastered over, that had once served 
as the workshop of a packing-case-maker. From the 
outside, through the four large windows, the panes of 


BOnEMIAN LIFE. 


75 


whicli were bedaubed with a coating of white lead, 
nothing could be seen but the bare whitewashed ceiling. 

Having pushed open the door, Claude remained 
motionless on the threshold. The vast structure stretched 
away, with its four long tables, ranged lengthwise to 
the windows, double tables, very wide, both sides 
occupied by swarms of students, and littered with 
moist sponges, paint saucers, iron candlesticks, water 
bov/ls, wooden boxes, in which each pupil kept his 
white linen blouse, his compasses and his colors. In 
one corner, the stove, neglected since last winter, was 
rusting by the side of a pile of coke that had not 
been swept away; while at the other end, a miniature 
iron cistern with its tap was suspended between two 
towels. And amidst the bare untidiness of this shed, 
the walls especially attracted notice, displaying up 
above a number of plaster casts ranged in hap-hazard 
fashion on shelves, and disappearing lower down 
behind forests of squares and bevels, behind heaps 
of drawing-boards, tied together with webbing straps. 
Bit by bit, such parts of the walls as had remained 
unoccupied had become covered with inscriptions, with' 
drawings, a constantly rising flotsam and jetsam, flung 
there like on the margin of an ever-open book. 
There were caricatures of the students themselves, 
profiles of common tilings, witticisms to make a 
gendarme turn pale; epigrammatic sentences, additions, 
addresses, the whole dominated by this one laconic 
line, a summary of opinion, as it were, written in big 
characters, and occupying the most prominent place: 
“On the 7th of June, Gorfu said that he didn’t care 
a hang for Eome, Signed, Godemard.” 

The painter was greeted with a growl, the growl of 
wild beasts disturbed in their lair. What kept him 
motionless was the aspect of this place on the morning 
of the “truck night,” as the architects termed this crucial 
night of labor. Since the previous evening, the whole 


76 


BOHEMIAN LIFE. 


of the studio — about sixty pupils — ^bad been shut up 
there; those who had no plans to exhibit — “the niggers,” 
as they were called — helping the others, the competitors 
who were behind time and obliged to knock down the 
work of a week in a dozen hours. Already at midnight 
they had stuffed themselves with brawn, saveloys and 
similar commodities, washed down with cheap wine. 
Towards one o’clock they had sent for “three ladies,” 
from an adjacent establishment in guise of dessert. And 
without the work abating, the feast had turned into a 
Roman orgie, amidst the smoke from the pipes. On 
the floor there remained of it all a litter of greasy paper, 
broken bottles; while the atmosphere retained the acrid 
smell of candles burnt in the socket, mingled with the 
effluvia of the sausages, and the cheap bluish wine. 
One of the windows had just been opened, but only 
slightly, as there was no need to make the Philistines 
opposite wiser than they were. 

And now many voices savagely yelled: “Turn him 
out! Oh, that mug! What does he want, that guy? 
Turn him out, turn him out!” 

For a moment Claude, quite dazed, staggered beneath 
the violence of the onslaught. But the epithets became 
stronger still, the acme of elegance, even for the more 
refined among them, being to rival in sharp language. 
He was, nevertheless, recovering and beginning to 
answer, when Dubuche recognized him. The latter 
turned crimson, for he detested this kind of adventures. 
He was ashamed of his friend, and rushed towards him, 
amidst the jeers, which were now levelled at himself. 

“What, is it you?” he gasped. “I told you never 
to come in. Just wait for me a minute in the yard.” 

At that moment, Claude, who was stepping back, 
narrowly escaped being knocked down by a little hand- 
truck brought up at a gallop by two full-bearded strong 
fellows. It was from this truck that the night of 
heavy toil derived its name ; and for the last week the 


BOHEMIAN LIFE. 


77 


students behindhand with their work, on account of 
the petty paid jobs outside, repeated the cry, “ I’m in 
the truck, to be sure!” The moment the vehicle ap- 
peared, a clamor arose. It was a quarter to nine, 
barely time to reach the School of Arts. A helter- 
skelter rush emptied the studio; every one brought 
out his chases, amidst a general jostling; those who 
obstinately wished to give a finishing touch were 
knocked about and carried away with their comrades. 
In less than five minutes all the frames were piled 
upon the truck, and the two bearded fellows, the most 
recent additions to the studio, harnessed themselves to 
it like cattle, drawing with all their might, while the 
rest, vociferating, pushed from behind. It was like 
the giving way of a sluice-gate, the three yards were 
crossed with a torrential crash, the street invaded, 
flooded by the howling crowd. 

Claude, nevertheless, had set up running by the side 
of Dubuche, who came at the fag end, very vexed at 
not having had a quarter of an hour longer to more 
carefully finish a tinted drawing. 

“What are you going to do afterwards?” asked 
Claude. 

“Oh! I’ve errands which will take up my whole 
day.” 

The painter was grieved to see that even this friend 
escaped him. “All right; in that case I leave you. 
Shall you be at Sandoz’s to-night?” 

“Yes, I think so, unless I’m kept to dinner else- 
where.” 

Both were getting out of breath. The band, with- 
out slackening their pace, purposely took the longest 
way round for the pleasure of prolonging their uproar. 

After going down the Eue du Four, they dashed 
across the Place Gozlin and swept into the Eue de 
L’Echaud^. Heading the procession, the truck, drawn 
and pushed more vigorously, rebounded over the 


78 


BOHEMIAN LIFE. 


uneven paving stones, amid the lamentable dancing of 
the frames with which it was laden. Its escort madly 
galloped along, compelling the passers-by to stick 
themselves against the houses unless they wished to 
be knocked down, while the shop-keepers, standing 
open-mouthed on their doorsteps, believed in a revolu- 
tion. The whole neighborhood was upset. In the 
Eue Jacob, such was the rush, so frightful the yells, 
that several house shutters were pulled to. As the 
Eue Bonaparte was, at last, being reached, a tall fair 
fellow thought it a good joke to catch hold of a little 
servant girl, standing bewildered on the pavement, and 
drag her along — a wisp of straw in a torrent. 

“Well,” said Claude, “good-bye then, I’ll see you 
to-night.” 

“Yes, to-night.” 

■ The painter, out of breath, had stopped at the corner 
of the Eue des Beaux Arts. The court gates of the 
school stood wide open in front of him. The proces- 
sion plunged into the yard. 

When he had breathed heavily for a moment, he 
retraced his steps to the Eue de Seine. His bad luck 
was increasing; it seemed ordained that he should not 
be able to beguile a chum from work that morning. 
So he went up the street, and slowly walked along as 
far as the Place du Pantheon, without any definite pur- 
pose. Then the idea struck him that he might look 
into the Mairie for all that, if only to shake hands 
with Sandoz. It would, at any rate, be ten minutes 
well spent. But he positively gasped when told that 
M. Sandoz had asked for a day off to attend a funeral. 
However, he knew the trick of old. His friend always 
found the same pretext when he wanted to do a good 
day’s work at home. He had already made up his 
mind to join him, when a feeling of artistic brother- 
hood, the scruple of the honest worker, made him stop; 
it would be a crime to go and disturb the good fellow, 


BOHEMIAN LIFE. 


79 


to take bim tbe discouragement born of a rebellious task, 
at the very moment when he was, no doubt, manfully 
accomplishing his work. 

After that Claude had to resign himself to his fate. 
He dragged his black melancholy along the quays 
until mid-day, his head so heavy, so throbbing with 
the constant thought of his lack of power, as only to 
behold the beloved horizons of the Seine through a 
mist. Then he found himself once more in the Eue 
de la Femme-sans-Tete, where he breakfasted at Gurn- 
ard’s, a wine shop, the sign of which, “The Dog of 
Montargis,” inspired him with interest. Stonemasons, 
in their working blouses, bespattered with mortar, 
were there at table, and like them, and with them, 
he ate his eight sous’ “ordinary” — ^beef-tea in a bowl, 
in which he soaked some bread, a slice of boiled beef 
garnished with haricot beans and served up on a plate 
still damp with dishwater. It was still too good he 
thought for a brute unable to earn his bread. When 
his work miscarried, he undervalued himself, ranked 
himself lower than the common workman, whose sin- 
ewy arms could at least perform their labor. For an 
hour he lingered, brutifying himself by listening to the 
conversation at the tables around him. Once outside 
he slowly resumed his walk at hap-hazard. 

When on the Place de I’llotel de Yille, an idea 
made him quicken his pace. Why had he not thought 
of Fagerolles? Fagerolles was a nice fellow, gay, and 
by no means a fool, albeit that he studied at the School 
of Arts. One could 'talk with him, even when he 
defended bad painting. If he had breakfasted at his 
father’s, Kue Yieille-du-Temple, he must certainly still 
be there. 

On entering the narrow street, Claude felt a sensa- 
tion of refreshing coolness steal over him. It had 
become very warm, and moisture rose from the pave- 
ment, which, notwithstanding the bright sky, remained 


80 


BOHEMIAN LIFE. 


damp and greasy beiieatli the constant trampling of 
the passers-by. Every minute, when a shove obliged 
him to leave the pavement, he was in danger of being 
knocked down by wains or vans. Still the street 
amused him, with its straggling houses out of line, its 
flat frontages chequered with signboards up to the 
very eaves, and pierced with small windows, whence 
issued the buzzing of every handiwork capable of 
being carried on at home. In one of its narrowest 
parts a small newspaper shop made him stop. It was 
betwixt a hairdresser’s and a tripeseller’s, and had an 
outdoor display of idiotic prints, romantic balderdash 
mixed with filth fit for a barrack -room. Stuck in 
front of the wood-cuts, a lank hobbledehoy was lost 
in reverie, while two girls of the genus gamine nudged 
each other and jeered. He felt inclined to slap all 
their faces, but he hurried across the road, for Fage- 
rolles’ house just happened to be opposite. It was an 
old dark tenement, standing forward from the others, 
and bespattered like them with the mud from the gut- 
ters. And as an omnibus was coming up, he had 
barely time to jump on to the pavement, there reduced 
to a simple ledge ; the wheels brushed against his 
chest, and he was drenched to his knees. 

M. Fagerolles, senior, a manufacturer of artistic zinc- 
work, had his workshops on the ground floor, and 
having converted the two large front rooms on the 
first floor into a warehouse, he occupied a small, dark, 
cellar-like apartment overlooking the court-yard. It 
was there that his son Henri had grown up like a 
true specimen of the flora of the Paris streets, at the 
edge of the narrow pavement constantly impinged by 
the omnibus wheels, alwaj^s soddened by the gutter, 
opposite the print and newspaper sliop, flanked by the 
barber’s and tripeseller’s. At first his father had 
made an ornamental draughtsman of him for his per- 
sonal use. But when the lad had developed a higher 


BOHEMIAN LIFE. 


81 


ambition, taking to painting proper and talking about 
the School of Arts, there had been quarrels, blows, a 
series of falling-outs and reconciliations. Even now, 
although Henri had already achieved some first suc- 
cesses, the manufacturer of artistic zinc-work, while 
resigned to letting him have his will, treated him 
harshly, like a lad who was spoiling his career. 

After shaking off the water, Claude went up the 
entrance, a deep archway, to a yard, where the day- 
light showed greenish, and which was pervaded by a 
dank, musty smell, like that at the bottom of a tank. 
There was an overhanging roofing of glass and iron 
at the foot of the staircase, which was a wide one, 
with a wrought-iron railing, eaten with rust. When 
the painter passed the warehouse on the first floor, he 
noticed through a glass door M. Fagerolles examining 
some patterns. Wishing to be polite, he entered, in 
spite of his artistic disgust at all this zinc, colored 
like bronze, of all the frightful mendacious prettiness 
of imitation art. 

“Good- morning, monsieur. Is Henri still at home?” 

The manufacturer, a stout, sallow -looking man, drew 
himself straight amidst his nosegay vases and statu- 
ettes. He held a new model of a thermometer, a jug- 
gling girl, crouching down and balancing the glass 
tube on her nose. 

“Henri did not come in to breakfast,” he answered 
dryly. 

This cool reception troubled Claude. “Ah! he did 
not come back to breakfast! I beg pardon for hav- 
ing disturbed you. Good-day, monsieur.” 

“ Good-day.” 

Once more outside, Claude began to swear to him- 
self. His ill luck was complete, Fagerolles escaped 
him also. He even felt vexed with himself for having 
gone there, and having taken an interest in this old, 
picturesque street; he was infuriated by the romantic 


82 


BOHEMIAN LIFE. 


gangrene that ever sprouted afresh within him, do 
what he would. It was his malady, perhaps, the false 
principle which he sometimes felt like a bar across 
his skull. And when he had reached the quays again, 
he had a thought of going home to see whether his 
picture was really very bad. But the mere idea made 
him tremble all over. Ilis studio seemed a spot of 
horrors, in which he could no more continue to live, 
as if he had left the corpse of some beloved being 
there. No, no; to climb up the three flights, to open 
the door, to shut himself up face to face “ with that,” 
would have needed strength beyond his courage. Pie 
crossed the Seine and went straight along the Bue St. 
Jacques. Come what might, he felt too wretched; 
and he was going to the Eue d’Enfer to turn Sandoz 
from his work. 

The small lodging on the fourth floor consisted of 
a dining-room, a bed-room, and a strip of kitchen. It 
Avas occupied by the son, while the mother, disabled 
by paralysis, had on the other side of the landing one 
single room where she lived in morose and voluntary 
solitude. The street was a deserted one, the windows 
of the lodging overlooked the gardens of the Deaf 
and Dumb Asylum, above which rose the rounded 
crest of a lofty tree, and the square tower of St. 
Jacques-du-IIaut-Pas. 

Claude found Sandoz in his room, bending over his 
table, absorbed in a page of manuscript. 

“I am disturbing you?” said Claude. 

“Not at all. I liave been working since this morn- 
ing, and I’ve enough of it. I’ve been killing myself 
for this hour on a sentence that reads anyhow, and 
which has worried me throughout my breakfast.” 

The painter made a gesture of despair, and the other, 
seeing him so gloomy, understood at once. 

“You don’t get on either, eh? Well, let’s go out. 


BOHEMIAN LIFE. 


83 


A sharp walk will take a little of the rust off us. 
Shall we go?” 

As he was passing the kitchen, an old woman 
stopped him. It was his charwoman, who, as a rule, 
came only for two hours in the morning and two 
hours in the evening. On Thursdays, however, she 
remained the whole of the afternoon to look after the 
dinner. 

“Then it’s decided, monsieur?” she asked. “It’s to 
be a piece of skate and a leg of mutton, with potatoes.” 

“Yes, if you like.” 

“For how many am I to lay the cloth?” 

“Oh! as for that, one never knows. Lay for five, 
at any rate; we’ll see afterwards. Dinner at seven, 
eh? We’ll try to be home by then.” 

When they were on the landing, Sandoz, leaving 
Claude to wait for him, stole into his mother’s room. 
When he came out again, in the same discreet,. affec- 
tionate manner, they both went down-stairs in silence. 
Outside, having sniffed right and left as if to see 
which way the wind blew, they ended by going up 
the street, reached the Place de I’Observatoire, and 
turned into the Boulevard du Montparnasse. It was 
their ordinary promenade, they reached the spot by 
instinct, being fond of the wide expanse of the outer 
boulevards, where they could roam and lounge at their 
ease. They continued silent, their heads feeling heavy 
still, but the comfort of being together gradually 
stole over them. It was only when they were opposite 
the Western Railway Station that Sandoz spoke. 

“I say, suppose we go to Mahoudeau’s to see how 
he’s getting on with his big machine. I know that 
he has given ‘his gods and saints’ the slip to-day.” 

“All right,” answered Claude. “Let’s go to Mahou- 
deau’s.” 

They at once turned into the Rue du Cherche-Midi. 
Mahoudeau, a sculptor, had rented, at a few steps from 


BOHEMIAN LIFE. 


84 

the boulevard, the shop of a fruiterer who had failed 
in business, and he had installed himself therein, con- 
tenting himself with covering the windows with a 
layer of whitening. At this point, the streets, wide 
and deserted, has a quiet provincial air, mingled with 
an ecclesiastical touch; large gateways stand wide 
open, showing a succession of deep and roomy yards; 
from a cowkeeper’s establishment comes a tepid, plung- 
ent smell of litter; the dead wall of a convent stretches 
away for a goodly length. It was between this con- 
vent and a herbalist’s that the shop transformed into 
a studio was situated. It still bore the inscription, 
“Fruiterer,” in large yellow letters. 

Claude and Sandoz narrowly missed being blinded 
by some little girls playing at skipping rope. On the 
side pavement sat several families, whose barricades 
of chairs compelled the friends to step down on to 
the roadway. However, they were drawing nigh, when 
the sight of the herbalist’s shop delayed them for a 
moment. Between its windows decked with enemas, 
bandages, and all sorts of appliances for private and 
delicate use, beneath the dried herbs hanging above 
the doorway, whence issued a constant aromatic smell, 
a thin, dark woman stood taking stock of them, while 
behind her, in the shadow, appeared the indistinct 
profile of a little sickly-looking man, who was expec- 
torating his lungs. The friends nudged each other’s 
elbows, their eyes lighting up with bantering mirth; 
and then they turned the handle of Mahoudeau’s door. 

The tolerably roomy shop was almost entirely taken 
up by a mass of clay, a colossal Bacchante, half- 
thrown back upon a rock. The wooden stays bent 
beneath the weight of the still shapeless mass, of 
which nothing could as yet be distinguished but the 
bust of a giantess and a pair of thighs like towers. 
Some water had been spilt on the floor, some muddy 
buckets straggled here and there; while a heap of 


BOHEMIAN LIFE. 


85 


moistened plaster was lying in a corner. On the fruit 
and vegetable shelves, left behind by the late tenant, 
some casts from, the antique were scattered about, 
covered with a tracery of cinder-like dust gradually 
collected there. A wash-house kind of dampness, a 
stale smell of moist clay, rose from the floor. And 
this wretchedness of the sculptor’s studio, the dirt 
attendant upon the profession,- were made still more 
conspicuous by the wan light from the besmeared 
shop windows. 

“What! is it you?” shouted Mahoudeau, seated 
before his female figure and smoking a pipe. 

He was small, thin, with a bony face already 
wrinkled at twenty-seven. His black, mane-like hair 
was entangled over his very low forehead, and his sal- 
low mask, ugly almost to ferociousness, was lighted 
up by a pair of childish eyes, bright and expressionless, 
which smiled with winning simplicity. The son of a 
stonemason of Plassans, he had attained great success 
at the local art competitions, after which he had come 
to Paris as the town laureate, with an allowance of 
eight hundred francs per annum, for a period of four 
years. In the capital, however, he had found himself 
at sea, defenceless, failing in his competitions at the 
School of Arts, and merely spending his allowance to 
no purpose; so that at the end of his term he had 
been obliged, in order to live, to enter the employ of 
a dealer in church statues, at whose place, for ten 
hours a day, he scraped away at St. Josephs, St. Kochs, 
Mary Magdalens, in fact, at all the saints of the cal- 
endar. For the last six months, however, his ambition 
had revived, when he found himself again with his 
comrades from Provcnge, the eldest of whom he was, 
fellows whom he had known at Geraud’s, a boarding 
school for small boys, who had since grown into sav- 
age revolutionaries. And now, in his constant com- 
merce with impassioned artists, who troubled his brain 


86 


BOHEMIAN LIFE. 


with their wild theories, his ambition aimed at the 
gigantic. 

“The devil!” said Claude, “there’s a lump.” 

The sculptor, delighted, gave a long pull at his pipe, 
and blew a cloud of smoke. 

“Eli, isn’t it? I am going to give them some flesh, 
and living flesh, too; not bladders of lard as they turn 
out.” 

“It’s a woman bathing, isn’t it?” asked Sandoz. 

“No; I shall put some vine leaves around her head. 
A Bacchante, you understand.” 

At this Claude flew into a violent passion. 

“A Bacchante? Do you want to make fools of 
people? Does such a thing as a Bacchante exist? A 
vintaging girl, eh? And quite modern, curse it all! 
I know very well that she’s half-clad. So let her be 
a peasant woman who is disrobing herself. And that 
must be conveyed so that every one can realize it; 
she must live.” 

Mahoudeau, taken aback, listened, trembling. He 
was afraid of Claude, and bent to his ideal of strength 
and truth. So he improved upon the painter’s idea. 

“Yes, yes, that’s what I meant to say — a vintaging 
girl. And you’ll see whether there’s the stamp of 
woman about her.” 

At that moment, Sandoz, who had been making the 
tour of the enormous block of clay, exclaimed: “Ah! 
that sneak, of a Chaine is here.” 

In fact, behind the pile, Chaine, a burly fellow, was 
quietly painting away, copying the fireless rusty stove 
on a small canvas.. One realized tliat he was a peasant 
by his heavy, deliberate manner, his bull neck, tanned 
and hardened like a hide. His only noticeable feature 
was his forehead, displaying the bump of obstinacy; 
for his nose was so small as to be lost between his 
red cheeks, while a stift* beard hid his powerful jaws. 
He came from Saint Firmin, about six miles from Bias- 


BOHEMIAN LIFE. 


87 


sans, a village wliere he had been a cow-boy, until he 
drew for the conscription; and his misfortune sprang 
from the enthusiasm that a gentleman of the neighbor- 
hood showed for the walking-stick handles which he 
carved out of roots with his knife. From that mo- 
ment, having become the rustic genius, the embrjo 
great man of the local connoisseur, who happened to 
be on the museum committee, assisted by him, adulated, 
driven crazy with hopes, he had successively missed 
-everything — his studies, his competitions and the 
town’s purse. He had, nevertheless, started for Paris, 
after having worried his father, a wretched peasant, 
into forestalling his heritage, a thousand francs, on 
wliich he reckoned to live for a twelvemonth wliile 
awaiting the promised victory. The thousand francs 
had lasted eighteen months. Then, as he had only 
twenty francs left, he had taken up his quarters with 
his friend, Mahoudeau. They both slept in the same 
bed, in the dark back shop; they both cut in turn 
from the same loaf of bread — of which they bought 
sufficient for a fortnight at the time, so that it might 
get very hard and that they might not be able to eat 
much of it. 

“I say, Chaine,” continued Sandoz, “your stove is 
really awfully exact.” 

Chaine, without answering, gave a chuckle of triumph 
which lighted up his face like a sunbeam. By a 
crowning stroke of imbecility, and to complete the 
adventure, his protector’s advice had launched him 
into painting, despite the taste he showed for wood 
carving. And he painted like a white washer, mixing 
his colors like a hodman mixes his mortar, and 
managing to make the clearest and brightest of them 
muddy. Ifis triumph consisted, however, in combining 
exactness with indexterity; he showed all the naive 
minuteness of the primitive painters; in fact his mind, 
barely disengaged from the clods, delighted in petty 


88 


BOHEMIAN LIFE. 


details. The stove, with its perspective all awry, was 
tame and precise, its color dingy like mire. 

Claude approached, and was taken with compassion at 
sight of this painting, and lie, so harsh towards bad 
painters as a rule, found a word of praise. 

“Ah! one can’t say that you are a humbug; you, at 
any rate, paint as you feel. Very good, indeed.” 

Meanwhile the door of the shop had opened, and a 
good-looking, fair fellow, quick and gay, with a big pink 
nose, and large, blue, short-sighted ej es, entered, shout- 
ing : 

“I say, that herbalist woman next door is there 
accosting people. There’s an ugly mug.” 

They all laughed, except Mahoudeau, who seemed 
very much embarrassed. 

“Jory, the King of Blunderers,” declared Sandoz, 
shaking hands with the new comer. 

“Why? What? Belongs to Mahoudeau? I didn’t 
know,” resumed Jory, when he had at length grasped 
the* situation. “Well, what’s the odds? There’s no 
refusing a woman.” 

“As for you,” the sculptor merely said,, “you have 
tumbled on the finger nails of yours again. She has 
dug out a bit of your cheek.” 

They all burst out laughing anew, while Jory in his 
turn became red. In fact, his face was scratched : 
there were even two deep gashes. The son of a 
magistrate of Plassans, whom he drove crazy bv his 
adventures, the adventures of a handsome man, he had 
put the crowning stroke to his profligacy by running 
away with a music-hall vsinger under the pretext of 
going to Paris to follow the literary profession. Dur- 
ing the six months that they had been camping 
together in a shady hotel in the Quartier. Latin, the 
girl had almost flayed him alive. And so he always 
had some fresh scar to show — a bloody nose, a torn 
ear, a damaged eye, swollen and blackened. 


BOHEMIAN LIFE. 


89 


At last they all began to talk, with the exception 
of Chaine, who continued to paint with his determined 
look of an ox at the plough. Jory had at once gone 
into ecstacies over the roughly indicated figure of the 
vintaging girl. He worshipped fat women. His first 
writings in his native town had been Parnassian son- 
nets celebrating a handsome pork-butcheress who had 
troubled his nights’ rest. In Paris — where he had 
fallen in with the band — he had taken to art criticism, 
and for a livelihood he wrote articles for twenty 
francos apiece in a small, slashing paper, called “ The 
Drummer.” Indeed, of these articles, a study on a 
picture of Claude’s, exhibited at Papa Malgras’, had 
just caused a tremendous scandal ; for Jory had therein 
sacrificed all the painters, appreciated by the public, 
to his friend, whom he had set up as the leader of a new 
school, the school of the “open air.” Very gay and 
very practical, at heart he did not care a rap about any- 
thing that did not concern his own pleasures; he 

simply repeated the theories he heard enunciated by 

his friends. “I Say, Mahoudeau,” he shouted, “you 
shall have your article: I’ll launch your woman!” 
Then suddenly changing the conversation: “By the 
way,” he said, “my miserly father has apologized. 
He is afraid I shall drag his name through the mud, 

so he sends me a hundred francs a month. I am 

paying my debts.” 

“Debts 1 You are too careful to have any,” muttered 
Sandoz, with a smile. 

In fact, Jory displayed a hereditary tightness of fist 
which amused his friends. He managed to lead a 
profligate life without money and without debts; 
and this innate science of indulging himself on the 
cheap was allied to constant duplicity, to a necessity 
for lying, which he had contracted in the devout 
sphere of his family, where his anxiety to hide his 
vices had made him lie about everything at all hours, 


90 


BOHEMIAN LIFE. 


and even witliout occasion. He now gave a superb 
reply, the cry of a sage knowing life in all its phases: 

‘‘ Oh, you fellows, you don’t know the worth of 
money.” 

This time he was hooted. What a Philistine! And 
the invective was continuing, when some light taps on 
one of the window panes suddenly made the din 
cease. 

“She is really becoming a downright nuisance,” 
said Mahoudeau, with a gesture of annoyance. 

“Eh! Who is it? The herbalist woman?” asked 
Jory. “Let her come in ; it will be great fun.” 

The door, indeed, had already been opened, and 
Mahoudeau’s neighbor, Madame Jabouille, or Mathilde, 
as she was familiarly called, appeared on the threshold. 
She was about thirty, with a flat face, horribly ema- 
ciated, and passionate eyes, the lids of wdiich had a 
bluey tinge as if bruised. It was said that the clergy 
had made. the match between her and little Jabouille, 
Avhose business was then flourishing, thanks to the 
pious custom of the neighborhood. The truth was 
that one sometimes saw vague shadows of black cas- 
socks stealthily crossing the mysterious shop, to which 
. the aromatic herbs imparted the scent of incense. 
Amid the sale of syringes, a kind of cloistral quiet- 
ude, a priestly unction, pervaded the place; and the 
devotees who came in spoke low, as if in the confes- 
sional, and going off with downcast e3^es. Unfortu- 
natel}", rumors had got abroad — slander invented by the 
wine-shopkeeper opposite, said pious folks. But since 
the widower had re-married, the herbalist business Avas 
going to the dogs. The glass jars seemed to have lost 
their brightness, the dried herbs, suspended from the 
ceiling, were tumbling to dust. Jabouille himself was 
coughing his very life out, reduced to a skeleton, all 
his flesh consumed. And although Mathilde professed 
to be religious, the pious customers gradually deserted 


BOHEMIAN LIFE. 


91 


her, being of opinion that she made herself too con- 
spicuous, now that Jabouille was almost eaten out of 
house and home. 

For a moment Mathilde remained motionless, blink- 
ing her eyes. A , pungent smell had spread through 
the shop, the smell of the simples with which her 
dress was impregnated and which she brought with 
her in her greasy, tumbled hair; the sickly sweetness 
of mallow, the sharp odor of elderseed, the bitter 
effluvia of rhubarb, but, above all, the hot whiff of 
peppermint, which was like her very breath. 

She made a gesture of feigned surprise. “Oh, dear 
me! you have company — I did not know; I’ll drop 
in again.” 

“Yes, do,” said Mahoudeau, looking very vexed. 
“Besides, I am going out; you’ll give me a sitting on 
Sunday.” 

Claude, stupefied, stared at Mathilde, then at the 
vintaging woman. 

“What!” he cried, “it’s madame who poses for those 
muscles. The devil! you fatten her up.” 

Then the laughter began again, while the sculptor 
stammered his explanations. “Oh, no; she didn’t pose 
for the bust — only for the head and the hands, and 
merely some indications, nothing more.” 

Mathilde, however, laughed with the others, with a 
sharp, brazen-faced laughter. She had deliberately 
entered the shop and closed the door. Then, as if at 
home, feeling in her element among all these men, she 
rubbed up against them and sniffed them. Her laughter 
showed the gaping holes in her mouth, where several 
teeth were wanting, and she looked ugly enough to 
frighten one — worn out already, her skin cleaving to 
her bones. Jory, whom she saw for the first time, 
must have seemed tempting to her, with his fresh 
chicken-like plumpness and his big suggestive pink 
nose. She prowled round him. 


92 


BOHEMIAN LIFE. 


“No,” said Malioudeau, rising up. “I have to go 
out on business. Ain’t it so, you fellows, we are being 
waited for over there? ” 

He had winked at his friends, feeling eager for a 
good lounge. They all answered that they were 
expected, and helped him to cover the vintaging girl 
with strips of old linen dipped in a pail of water. 

However, Mathilde, looking submissive but sad, did 
not stir. She merely shifted from one place to another, 
when they pushed against her, while Chaine, who was 
no longer painting, watched her over his picture. So 
far, he had not opened his lips. But as Mahoudeau 
at last went off with his three friends, he made up 
his mind and said in his heavy voice, rendered un- 
wieldly by long spells of silence: 

“Shall you come home to-night?” 

“Very late. Have your dinner and go to bed. 
Good-bye.” 

And Chaine remained alone with Mathilde in the 
damp shop, amidst the heaps of clay and the puddlers, 
in the broad smeary light of the whitened windows 
that glared crudely down on this nook of wretched 
untidiness. 

When outside, Claude and Mahoudeau went on in 
front, while the other two followed. Jory pretended 
to be indignant when Sandoz began chaffing by assu- 
ring him that he had made the conquest of the her- 
balist. 

“Oh, no, she is too horrid; she is old enough to be 
the mother of all of us.” 

The sally made Sandoz laugh. He shrugged his 
shoulders. 

They dropped the subject. All four, strolling along, 
seemed to take up the width of the Boulevard des 
Invalides. It was the usual thing, the band gradually 
increasing by comrades met on the way, the untram- 
melled march of a horde on the war path. These 


BOHEMIAN LIFE. 


93 


young fellows, with the bold assurance of their twenty 
summers, took possession of the pavement. The 
moment they were together trumpets seemed to sound 
in advance of them ; they collared Paris with one hand 
and quietly dropped the city in their pockets. There 
was no longer the slightest doubt about victory ; they 
displayed their threadbare coats and old shoes like con- 
querors of to-morrow, disdainful of these bagatelles, 
and having onlx'- to take the trouble to become the 
masters of all the luxuries surrounding them. And all 
this was accompanied by a huge contempt for every- 
thing that was not art, the contempt for fortune, con- 
tempt for the world at large, above all, contempt for 
politics. What was the good of all the latter rubbish ? 
Only a lot of incapables meddled with it. A warped 
view of things, magnificent in its very injustice, exalted 
them; a determined ignorance of the necessities of social 
life, the crazy dream of there being nothing but artists 
on earth. They were stupid at times, but this passion 
made them strong and brave. 

Claude became excited. Faith in himself revived 
amidst this glow of hopes shared in common. Ilis 
worry of the morning had only left him vague numbness, 
and he had now begun to discuss his picture with San- 
doz and Mahoudeau, swearing, it is true, that he would 
destroy it the next day. Jory, very short-sighted, 
stared at all the elderly ladies he met, and aired his 
theories on artistic work. A man ought to give his 
full measure at once; as for himself, he never corrected 
anything. And still discussing, the four friends went 
on down the boulevard, which, with its comparative 
solitude, and rows of fine trees, seemed made, as it were, 
for them to have their disputes out. When they 
reached the Esplanade, the wrangle became so violent 
that they stop})ed in the middle of the large open 
space. Beside himself, Claude called Jory a numskull. 
Was it not better to destroy one’s work than to launch 


94 


BOHEMIAN LIFE. 


a mediocre performance upon the world ? It was really 
disgusting, this truckling to trade. Malioudeau and 
Sandoz on their side shouted both at the same time. 
Some passers-by, feeling uneasy, turned round to look at 
them, and at last gathered round these furious young 
fellows, who seemed bent on swallowing each other. 
But they soon went away vexed, thinking that a prac- 
tical joke had been played upon them, when they sud- 
denly saw the quartette, all good friends again, go into 
raptures respecting a wet-nurse, dressed in light colors, 
with long cherry-tinted ribbons to her cap. There, now, 
that was something like — what a tint, what a bright 
note it set amid the surroundings ! Delighted, they fol- 
lowed the nurse under the trees, blinking their eyes, 
as if abruptly aroused and astonished to find they had 
already gone so far. The Esplanade, open everywhere, 
shut in on the south only by the distant perspective 
of the Hotel des Invalides, delighted them ; it was so 
vast and calm; they there had plenty of room for their 
gestures ; and they recovered their breath there, although 
they declared that Paris was too narrow for them, and 
lacked sufficient air to inflate their ambitious lungs. 

“Are you going anywhere in particular?” asked 
Sandoz. of Mahoudeau and Jory. 

“ No,” answered the latter, “we are going with you. 
Where are you going?” 

Claude, gazing carelessly about him, muttered: “I 
don’t know. That way, if you like.” 

They turned on to the Quai d’Orsay, and went as far 
as the Pont de la Concorde. In front of the Corps 
Legislatif, the painters said, with an air of disgust; 
“ What a hideous monument.” 

“ Jules Eavre made a famous speech the other day. 
How he did rile Boulier,” said Jory. 

However, the others left him no time to proceed, 
and the dispute recommenced. Who was Jules Favre? 
Who was Rouher? Did they exist? A parcel of idiots 


BOHEMIAN LIFE. 


95 


whom no one would remember ten years after their 
death. They had begun to cross the bridge, and 
shrugged their shoulders with compassion. Then, when 
they reached the Place de la Concorde, they stopped 
short and relapsed into silence. 

“Well,” opined Claude at last, “this isn’t bad, by 
any means.” 

It was four o’clock, and the day was waning amidst 
a glorious powdery shimmer. To the right and left, 
towards the Madeleine and towards the Corps Legis- 
latif, lines of buildings stretched away and stood out 
in relief against the sky, while the Tuileries Gardens 
displayed their gradient of lofty top-rounded chestnut- 
trees. And between the verdant borders of the plea- 
sure walks the avenue of the Champs Elysdes sloped 
upwards as far as the eye could reach, topped by the 
colossal Arc de Triomphe, which, gaping, disclosed 
infinite space. A double human current, a twofold 
stream rolled along — horses like living eddies, vehicles 
like retreating waves, which the reflection of a panel, 
the sudden sparkle of a carriage lamp seemed to tip with 
white foam. Lower down, the Place, with its vast 
footways, its roads as broad as lakes, swarmed with 
this constant ebb and flow, crossed in every direction 
by whirling wheels, and bespeckled with dark spots 
which were so many men, while the two fountains 
plashed, exhaling their coolness amid all the ardent 
vitality. 

Claude, quivering with excitement, kept saying: 

“Yes, we must have that! It’s ours. We have 
only to take it.” 

They all grew excited, their eyes opened wide with 
desire, their fingers burned with the impatience for 
possession. Was it not glory herself that swept 
from the summit of this avenue over the whole of 
the capital? Paris was there, and they longed for it 
to be theirs. 


96 


BOHEMIAN LIFE. 


“Well, we’ll take it one day,” said Sandoz with 
his obstinate air. 

“To be sure we shall,” said Mahoudeau and Jory 
in the simplest manner. 

They had resumed walking; they still roamed 
about, found themselves behind the Madeleine, and 
went up the Rue Tronchet. At last they reached the 
Place du Havre,' when Sandoz exclaimed: “So we 
are going to Baudequin’s, eh?” 

The others looked as if they had dropped from the 
sky; in fact, it seemed as if they were going to 
Baudequin’s. 

“What day of the week is it?” asked Claude. 
“Thursday, eh? Then Fagerolles and Gagniere are 
sure to be there. Let’s go to Baudequin’s.” 

And they went up the Rue d’ Amsterdam. They 
liad just crossed Paris, one of their favorite rambles, 
but they had other routes; from one end of the quays 
to the other at times; from the Porte St. Jacques to 
the Moulineaux, or else a spin to Pere-la-Chaise, fol- 
lowed by a round-about return along the outer boule- 
vards. They roamed the streets, the open spaces, the 
crossways; they rambled about for whole days, as 
long as their legs would carry them, and as if they 
wished to conquer one quarter after another by hurl- 
ing their revolutionary theories at the house fronts; 
and the pavement seemed to be their property — all 
the pavement trodden by the soles of their feet, the old 
battlefield whence arose an intoxicating fume which 
made them forget their lassitude. 

The Cafe Baudequin was situated on the Boulevard 
des Batignolles, at the corner of the Rue Darcet. With- 
out the least why or wherefore, it had been selected 
bv the band as their meeting-place, though Gagniere 
alone lived in the neighborhood. They met there reg- 
ularly on Sunday nights ; and on Thursday afternoons, 
at about five, those who were at liberty had made it 


BOHEMIAN LIFE. 


97 


a habit to look in for a moment. On that day, as 
the weather was fine and bright, the little tables out- 
side under the awning were all occupied by a double 
row of customers, obstructing the footway. But the 
band hated all this elbowing and public exhibition, so 
they jostled the crowd to enter the interior which was 
deserted and cool. 

“ Hallo, there’s Fagerolles by himself,” exclaimed 
Claude. 

He had gone straight to their usual table at the 
end of the cafd, to the left, and was shaking hands 
with a pale, thin young man, whose girlish face was 
lighted up by a pair of winning, satirical, gray eyes, 
which at times flashed like steel. They all sat down 
and ordered beer, after which the painter resumed: 

“Do you know that I went to look for you at your 
father’s; and a nice reception he gave me.” 

Fagerolles, who affected a low, devil-may-care style, 
slapped his thighs. “Oh, the old fellow plagues me. 
I hooked it this morning, after a row. He wants me 
to draw some things for his beastly zinc stuff. As if 
I hadn’t enough zinc stuff at the school.” 

This slap at the professors delighted the young men. 
He amused them and made himself their idol by his 
constant sneaky soft-soaping on one side and wigging 
on the other. His ominous smile went from one to 
the other, while, by the aid of a few drops of the 
beer spilt on the table, his long, nimble fingers, intui- 
tively skilful, roughed out complicated sketches. His 
art came evidently very easily to him; it looked as 
if he could do anything with a turn of the hand. 

“ And Gagni^re ? ” asked Mahoudeau. “ Haven’t you 
seen him ? ” 

“ No ; I have been here for the last hour.” 

Jory, who remained silent, nudged Sandoz with his 
elbow, and with a nod of the head directed his atten- 
tion to a girl seated with a gentleman at a table at 


'98 


BOHEMIAN LIFE. 


the back of the room. There were only two other 
customers, two sergeants, having a game of cards. 'J’lie 
girl was almost a child, one of those Parisian female 
urchins who retain the macilency of green fruit at 
eighteen. She gave you the impression of a frizzed 
poodle — with a shower of little, fair locks above her 
dainty little nose and a large, smiling mouth set in 
her rosy mug. She was turning over the leaves of 
an illustrated paper, while the gentleman was gravely 
sipping a glass of Madeira, but every other minute 
she darted gay glances from over the paper towards 
the band. 

“ Pretty, isn’t she ? ” whispered Jory, who was 
warming up. “ Who is she staring at? She’s looking 
at me.” 

But Fagerolles suddenly interfered : “ I say, no non- 

sense; she belongs to me. Don’t imagine that I have 
been here for the last hour merely waiting for you.” 

The others laughed ; and lowering his voice he told 
them about Irma Becot. Tlm-y had come across each 
other by chance, and only once before. But she was 
great fun. lie knew her story ; she was the daughter 
of a grocer in the Rue JMontorgueil. By no means 
ignorant, she knew how to spell, for she had been to 
school in the neighborhood till she was sixteen. She 
Avrote her exercises between two bags of lentils, and 
had finished her education on her father’s doorstep, 
as it were, lolling about on the pavement, amidst the 
jostling of the throng, learning all about life from the 
everlasting tittle-tattle of the cooks, who revealed all 
the abominations of the neighborhood while five sous’ 
worth of Gruy^re cheese was being served them. Her 
mother having died, her father had become sweet on 
his servants; very reasonably, though, and so as not 
to have to run about out of doors. It had ended, 
however, by giving him a taste of women’s society, 
and he needed more of it; so at last he had gone in 


BOHEMIAN LIFE. 


99 


for such sprees that the whole of the grocery shop 
was gradudlly swallowed up with its dried vegetables, 
and jars and drawers of sweetstuff. Irma was still 
going to school. Six months later the place was sold 
out; her father died of a fit of apoplexy, and Irma 
sought refuge with a poor aunt, who gave her more 
kicks than half-pence. She ran away with a young 
fellow living across the street, came back on three 
occasions and finally one day took her flight through 
all the dancing-placcs of Montmartre and Batignolles. 

Suddenly, as the gentleman rose up and went out 
after whispering in her ear, Irma Becot watched him 
disappear, and then, with the impulsiveness of a school- 
girl let loose, she hastened to seat herself beside Fag- 
erolles. 

“ Do you see, eh? He sticks to me like a leech.” 

Jory, above all, seemed to interest her as he sat 
there. As he was smoking, she took his cigarette out 
of his mouth and set it in her own, but without inter- 
rupting her chatter, like that of a saucy magpie. 

“You are all painters, aren’t you? IIow amusing! 
But why do these three look as if they were sulking? 
Just laugh a bit, or I shall tickle you, you’ll seel” 

In fact, Sandoz, Claude and Mahoudeau, taken aback, 
sat watching her gravely. She herself remained list- 
ening, and hearing her companion come back, she 
hastily said to Fagerolles: 

“To-morrow night I shall be at the Brasserie Breda.” 

Then, after placing the cigarette, quite wet, between 
Jory’s lips, she darted off with long strides, her arms 
in the air, and making a very comical grimace; so 
when the gentleman reappeared, looking sedate and 
somewhat pale, he found her reseated, still looking at 
the same engraving in the newspaper. The whole 
scene had been enacted so quickly, with such hasty 
drollery, that the sergeants, good-natured fellows, almost 
died with laughter as they shuffled their cards afresh. 


100 


BOHEMIAN LIFE. 


In fact, Irma had taken them all by storm. Sandoz 
declared that her name of Becot was very well suited 
for a novel; Claude asked whether she would consent 
to pose for a sketch; while Mahoudeau already pictured 
her as an urchin, a statuette that would be sure to 
sell. She soon went oft', and behind the gentleman’s 
back she sent kisses with her finger tips to the whole 
party, a shower of kisses which completed Jory’s 
excitement. But Fagerolles was not disposed to part 
with her yet awhile, he was unconsciously amused at 
finding in her a child of the streets, like himself, and 
he was titillated by her mocking perversion, sprung 
from the pavement like his own. 

It was five o’clock, and the band ordered some more 
beer. Some usual customers had taken possession of 
the adjacent tables, and these Philistines cast sidelong 
glances at the artists’ conier, glances in which contempt 
was curiously mingled with a kind of uneasy defer- 
ence. The artists were indeed well known; a legend 
was being coined respecting them. They themselves 
were now talking on commonplace subjects: about the 
heat, the difficulty of finding room in the omnibus to 
the Odeon, the discovery of a wine-shop where real 
meat Avas given you to eat. One of them wanted to 
start a discussion about a lot of idiotic pictures that 
had lately been hung in the Luxembourg Museum; 
but there was only one opinion on the subject, that 
the pictures were not worth their frames. Thereupon 
they left off conversing; they smoked, merely exchang- 
ing a word, or a significant smile noAV and then. 

“Well,” asked Claude at last, “are we going to wait 
for Gagni^re?” 

There was a protest. Gagni^re was a bore. Besides, 
he Avould turn up as soon as he smelt the soup. 

“Let’s be off, then,” said Sandoz. “There’s a leg 
of mutton this evening, so let’s try to be punctual.” 

Each paid his score, and they all went out. Their 


BOHEMIAN LIFE. 


101 


departure threw the cafd into a state of emotion. 
Some young fellows, painters, no doubt, whispered as 
they pointed out Claude to one another, much in the 
same manner as if they had seen the redoubtable chief- 
tain of a horde of savages pass along. Jory’s famous 
article was producing its effect; the public itself was 
becoming his accomplice, and of itself was about to 
found the school of the open air, which the band had 
so far only joked about. As they gayly said, the Cafd 
Baudequin was not aware of the honor they had done 
it on the day when they selected it to be the cradle 
of a revolution. 

Fagerolles having reinforced the group, they now 
numbered five, and slowly they took their way back 
across Paris, with their tranquil look of victory. The 
more numerous they were, the more they held the width 
of the pavement, and carried away at their heels the 
burning life of the streets. When they had gone down 
the Kue de Clichy, they Avent straight along the Kue 
de la Chaussee d’Antin, turned towards the Kue de 
Richelieu, crossed the Seine by the Pont des Arts, so 
as to fling their gibes at the Institute, and finally 
reached the Luxembourg by way of the Rue de Seine, 
where a poster, printed in three colors, the garish 
announcement of a traveling circus, made them all 
shout aloud with admiration. Evening was coming 
on; the stream of wayfarers flowed more slowly; the 
tired city was awaiting the shadows of night, ready 
to yield to the first comer sufficiently strong to take 
her. 

On reaching the Rue d’Enfer, when Sandoz had 
ushered , his four friends into his apartments, he once 
more vanished into his mother’s room. He remained 
there for a few moments, and then came out without 
saying a word, but with the tender, gentle smile habitual 
to him on these occasions. And immediately after- 
wards there arose in his small rooms a terrible hub- 


102 


• BOHEMIAN LIFE. 


bub, discussions, laughter and clamor. Sandoz himself 
set the example, all the while assisting the charwoman, 
who burst forth into bitter language because it was 
half-past seven, and her leg of mutton was drying up. 
The five companions, seated at table, were already 
swallowing their soup, a very good onion soup, when 
a new comer appeared. 

“Hallo! here’s Gagni^re,” was the vociferous chorus. 

Gagniere, small and vague-looking, with a doll-like, 
startled face, set off by a fair curly beard, stood for 
a moment on the threshold blinking his green eyes. 
He belonged to Melun, where his well-to-do parents, 
who were both dead, had left him two houses; and 
he had learnt painting, unassisted, in the forest of 
Fontainebleau. His landscapes were conscientious, at 
least, excellent in intent; but his real passion was 
music, madness for music, a cerebral bonfire which set 
him on a level with the wildest of the band. 

“Am I in the way?” he asked, gently. 

“Not at all; come in,” shouted Sandoz. 

The charwoman was already laying an extra knife 
and fork. 

“Suppose she lays a place for Dubuche, while she 
is about it,” said Claude. “He told me he would 
perhaps come.” 

But they were all down upon Dubuche, who fre- 
quented women in society. Jory said that he had 
seen him in a vehicle with an old lady and her 
daughter, whose parasols he was holding on his knees. 

“Where have you come from to be so late?” asked 
Fagerolles of Gagniere. 

The latter, who was about to swallow his first 
spoonful of soup, sat it in his plate again. 

“I was in the Eue de Lancry, you know, where 
they have chamber music. Oh 1 my boy, some of 
Schumann’s machines! You haven’t an idea of them. 
They clutch hold of you at the back of your head. 


BOHEMIAN LIFE. 


103 


Yes, yes, something much more immaterial than a 
kiss, just a whiff of breath. ’ Pon my honor, a fellow 
feels as if he were going to die.” 

His eyes were moistening, he turned pale, as if 
experiencing unduly acute enjoyment. 

“Eat your soup,” said Malioudeau; “you’ll tell us all 
about it afterwards.” 

The skate was served, and they had the vinegar 
bottle put on the table to flavor the black butter, 
which seemed rather insipid. They ate with a will, 
and the hunks of bread swiftly disappeared. There 
was nothing refined — merely common wine, which they 
watered considerably from a feeling of delicacy, in 
order to lessen their host’s expenses. They had just 
saluted the leg of mutton with a hurrah, and the host 
had begun to carve it, when the door opened anew. 
But this time there were furious protests. 

“No, no, not another soul! Turn him out, turn him 
out!” 

Dubuche, out of breath with having run, bewildered 
at finding himself amidst all this howling, protruded 
his fat, pallid face, stammering explanations. 

“Eeally, I assure you it was the fault of the omni- 
bus. I had to wait for five of them in the Champs 
Elysees.” 

“No no, he’s lying! Let him go off, he sha’n’t 
have any of that mutton. Turn him out, turn him 
out ! ” 

All the same, he ended by coming in, and it was 
then noticed that he was stylishly attired, all in black, 
tro-users and frock-coat alike, and cravated and booted 
in the stiff, ceremonious fashion of some respectable 
member of the middle classes going out to dinner. 

“Hallo! he has missed his invitation,” chaffed Fag- 
erolles. “Don’t you see that his fine ladies didn’t ask 
him to stay to dinner, and now he comes to gobble 


104 


BOHEMIAN LIFE. 


up our leg of muttoo, as lie doesn’t know where else 
to go.” 

At this Dubuche turned red, and stammered: “Oh! 
what an ideal How ill-natured you are! And, besides, 
just attend to your own business.” 

Sandoz and Claude, seated next to each other, 
smiled, and the former beckoned to Dubuche, and said 
to him: “Lay your own place, bring a plate and a 
glass, and sit between us — they’ll leave you alone.” 

However, the chaff continued all the time that the 
mutton was being eaten. When the charwoman had 
brought Dubuche a plate of soup and a piece of skate, 
he himself fell in with the jokes good-naturedly. He 
pretended to be famished, greedily mopped out his 
plate, and related a story about a mother having refused 
him her daughter because he was an architect. The 
end of the dinner was thus very boisterous; they all 
spoke at the same time. The only dessert, a piece of 
Brie cheese, met with enormous success. Not a scrap 
of it was left, and the bread almost ran short. The 
wine did run short, so they each swallowed a clear 
draught of water, smacking their lips amidst great 
laughter. And, with faces beaming, and well-filled 
paunches, they passed into the bed-room with the 
supreme content of folks who have fared very sumptu- 
ously indeed. 

These were the jolly evenings at Sandoz’s. Even 
at times when he was hard up he had had some 
boiled beef and broth to share with his comrades. 
He felt delighted at having a lot of them around him, 
all friends, inspired by the same ideas. Though he 
was of their own age, he coruscated with fatherly 
feelings and satisfied good-nature when he saw them 
in his rooms, around him, hand in hand, and intoxi- 
cated with hope. As he had but two rooms, the bed- 
room did duty as a drawing-room, and was as much 
theirs as his. Being short of chairs, two or three had 


BOHEMIAN LIFE. 


105 


to seat themselves on the bed. On these warm sum- 
mer evenings the window remained wide open, letting 
in the air from outside, and rising up above the houses, 
against the clear sky, one perceived two black sil- 
houettes — the tower of St. Jacques du Haut-Pas and 
the tree of the Deaf and Dumb Asylum. When 
money was plentiful there was beer. Every one 
brought his own tobacco, the room soon tilled with 
smoke, and they ended by conversing without seeing 
each other until very late into the night, amidst the 
deep, mournful silence of this deserted neighborhood. 

On that particular evening, at about nine o’clock, 
the charwoman came in. 

“Monsieur, I have done. Can I go?” 

“Yes, go to bed. You have left the kettle on the 
fire, haven’t you? I’ll make the tea myself.” 

Sandoz had risen. He disappeared at the heels of 
the charwoman, and only returned a quarter of an 
hour afterwards. He had no doubt been to kiss his 
mother, whom he tucked up every night before she 
dozed off*. 

Meanwhile the voices had risen to a high pitch 
again. Fagerolles was telling a story. 

“Yes, old fellow; at the School they even correct 
Nature herself. The other day Mazel comes up to 
me and says: ‘Those two thighs are not alike; ’ where- 
upon I reply: ‘Look for yourself, monsieur — the model’s 
are like that.’ It was little Flore Beauchamp, you 
.know. ‘Well,’ Mazel furiously replies, ‘if she has got 
them like that, it’s very wrong of her.’” 

They almost all shrieked, especially Claude, to whom 
Fagerolles told the story by way of paying court. For 
some time previously the younger artist had yielded 
to the elder’s influence; and although he continued to 
paint, with tricky skill, he no longer talked of any- 
thing but substantial, thickly-painted work, of bits of 
Nature thrown on to the canvas, breathing and throb- 


106 


BOHEMIAN LIFE. 


bing witli life, such as they were. This did not pre- 
vent him, though, from elsewhere chaffing the adepts 
of the open air school, whom he accused of impasting 
their work with a kitchen ladle. 

Dubuche, who had not laughed, his sense of recti- 
tude being offended, made so bold as to reply: 

“Why do you stop at the School if you think you 
are being brutified there? It’s very simple, one goes 
away! Oh, I know you are all against me, because I 
defend the School. But, do you see, my idea is that, 
when a fellow wants to carry on a trade, it is not at 
all a bad thing for him to begin by learning it.” 

Ferocious shouts arose, and Claude needed all his 
authority to secure a hearing. 

“ He is right. One must learn one’s trade. But it 
won’t do to learn it under the ferule of professors 
who want to cram their own views forcibly into 3^our 
head. That Mazel is a perfect idiot!” 

He flung himself backward on the bed, on which 
he had been sitting, and, his eyes lifted to the ceiling, 
he continued, in an excited tone: 

“Ah! life! life! to feel it and reproduce it in its 
reality, to love it for itself, to behold therein the only 
real, lasting and changing beauty, not to have the 
idiotic idea of ennobling it by mutilating it, but to 
understand that all so-called ugliness is nothing but 
the especial sign of individual character, to create men 
and endow them with life — that is the only wa}^ to 
become a god.” 

His faith was coming back to him, the march 
across Paris had spurred him on once more; he was 
again seized with his passion for living flesh. They 
listened to him in silence. He rnade a wild gesture, 
then he calmed down. 

“Ho doubt every one has his own ideas; but the 
annoyance is that at the Institute they are even more 
intolerant than we are. The hanging committee of 


BOHEMIAN LIFE. 


107 


the Salon is in their hands. I am sure that that 
idiot Mazel will refuse my picture.” 

Whereupon they all broke out in imprecations, for 
this question of the hanging committee was the ever- 
lasting subject of their wrath. They demanded reforms; 
every one had a solution of the problem ready — from 
universal suffrage, applied to the election of a hang- 
ing committee, liberal in the widest sense of the 
word, down to unrestricted liberty, a Salon open to 
all exhibitors. 

“Eh ! what? What am I going to send to the Salon? 
A small landscape, perhaps; a little bit of the Seine. 
It is so difficult; first of all I must be pleased with it 
myself.” 

“For my part,” said Mahoudeau, “I feel delighted 
at the prospect of making them squint with my 
woman.” 

Claude shrugged his shoulders. “Oh! you’ll be 
received, the sculptors are larger-minded than the paint- 
ers. And, besides, you know very well what you are 
about; you have something at your fingers’ ends that 
pleases. There will be plenty of pretty bits about your 
vintaging girl.” 

The compliment made Mahoudeau feel serious. He 
posed above all for vigor of execution; he was uncon- 
scious of his real vein of talent and despised graceful- 
ness — which, albeit, invincibly emanated from his coarse, 
untaught, workingman’s fingers, like a flower that 
obstinately sprouts from the hard soil where the wind 
has flung its seed. 

Fagerolles, very cunning, had decided not to send 
anything for fear of displeasing his masters, and he 
chaffed the Salon, “a foul bazaar,” so he called it, 
“ where the good painting turned musty just like the 
bad.” In his inmost heart he was dreaming of the 
prize of Kome, which he ridiculed, however, like every- 
thing else. 


108 


BOHEMIAN LIFE. 


However, Jory stuck himself in the middle of the 
room, holding his glass of beer. Sipping at it now 
and then, he declared: 

“After all, your hanging committee disgusts me! I 
say, shall I demolish it? I’ll begin bombarding it in 
the very next number. You’ll give me some notes, 
eh? and we’ll knock it down. It’ll be fine fun.” 

Claude was at last fully wound up, and general 
enthusiasm prevailed. Yes, yes, they must start a 
campaign. They would all in it, and, pressing 
shoulder to shoulder, march to the battle together. At 
that moment there was not one of them who reserved 
his share of fame, for nothing divided them as yet; 
neither their profound dissemblances, of which they 
themselves were not aware, nor their rivalries, which 
would some day make them clash together. Was not 
the success of one the success of all the others? Their 
youth was fermenting, they were brimming over with 
devotion; they recommenced their everlasting dream 
of gathering into a phalanx to conquer the world, each 
contributing his individual effort; this one pushing that 
one forward, the whole band arriving at once on the' 
same rank. Claude, as the acknowledged chief, was 
already sounding the victory, distributing the laurels 
with such lyrical abundance that he overlooked him- 
self. Gibing Parisian though he might be, Fagerolles 
.himself believed in the necessity of being an army; 
while even Jory, although he had a coarser appetite, 
with a deal of the provincial still about him, spent 
himself in useful comradeship, catching various artistic 
phrases as they fell from his companions’ lips, and 
already preparing in his mind the articles which would 
herald the advent of the band and make them known. 
And Mahoudeau purposely exaggerated his intentional 
brutalities, clasped his own hands, like an ogre knead- 
ing human flesh; while Gagni^re, .in ecstasy, as if 
emancipated from the everlasting grayishness of his 


BOHEMIAN LIFE. 


109 


painting, endeavored to refine every sensation to tne 
final yielding of all intelligence; and Dubuclie, with 
liis matter-of-fact convictions, only threw in a word 
here and there, but words like blows from a club in 
the very midst of the fray. Then Sandoz, happy and 
smiling at seeing them so united, “all in one shirt,” 
as he put it, opened another bottle of beer. He would 
have emptied every one in the house. 

“Eh!” he cried. “We’re agreed, let’s stick to it. 
It’s really pleasant to come to an understanding among 
fellows who have something in their heads, and may 
the thunderbolts of heaven sweep all idiots away!” 

At that same moment a ring at the bell stupefied 
him. Amidst the sudden silence of the others, he asked: 
“Who, the deuce, can that be — at eleven o’clock?” 

He ran to open the door, and they heard him utter 
a cry of- delight. He was already coming back again, 
throwing the door wide open as he said: “Ah! it’s 
very kind, indeed, to think of us like that and to sur- 
prise us! Bongrand, gentlemen.” 

The great painter, whom the master of the house 
announced in this respectfully familiar way, entered, 
holding out both hands. They all eagerly rose, evinc- 
ing emotion, happy at this shake of a manly hand, so 
cordially bestowed. The new comer was a stout man, 
forty-five years old, with a very expressive face and 
long gray hair. He had recently became a member of 
the Institute, and the simple alpaca jacket he wore dis- 
played the rosette of an officer of the Legion of Honor 
in its buttonhole. He was fond of young people; he 
liked nothing so much as to drop in from time to time 
and to smoke a pipe among these beginners, whose 
enthusiasm warmed his heart. 

“I am going to make the tea,” shouted Sandoz. 

When he came back from the kitchen, carrying the 
teapot and cups, he found Bongrand installed astride 
a chair, smoking his short cutty, amidst the din 


110 


BOHEMIAN LIFE. 


wliicli liad again arisen. Bongrand himself was hold- 
ing fortli in a stentorian voice. The grandson of a 
farmer of the Beauce country, the son of a man risen 
to the middle classes, with peasant blood in his veins, 
owing his culture to a mother of very artistic tastes, 
he was rich, had no need to sell his pictures, and 
retained many tastes and opinions of Bohemian life. 

“The hanging committee? Well, I’d sooner hang 
myself than belong to it,” he said, with sweeping ges- 
tures. “Am I an executioner to kick poor devils, 
who often want to earn their bread, out of doors?” 

“Still,” observed Claude, “you might render us 
great service by defending our pictures before the 
committee.” 

“Oh, dear, no! I should only make matters worse 
for you — 1 don’t count ; I’m nobody.” 

There was a chorus of protestations, Fagerolles 
objected in a shrill voice. 

“Well, if the painter of ‘The Village Wedding’ 
does not count — ” 

But Bongrand was getting angry; he had risen up, 
his cheeks afire. 

“Don’t .pester me, eh! with ‘The Wedding;’ I warn 
you I am getting sick of that picture. It is becom- 
ing a perfect nightmare to me ever since it has been 
hung in the Luxembourg Museum.” 

This “Village Wedding” had so far remained his 
masterpiece; a party of wedding guests roaming 
through a corn-field, peasants studied from life, Avith 
an epic look of the heroes of Homer about them. The 
picture had brought about an evolution in art, for it 
had inaugurated a new doctrine. Coming after Dela- 
croix, and parallel with Courbet, it was a piece of 
romanticism, tempered by logic, with more correctness 
of observation, more perfection in the handling. How- 
ever, it was not the face-to-face encounter with Nature 
in the crudity of the open air, and yet all the new 


BOHEMIAN LIFE. 


Ill 


scliool claimed connection with the style of art it had 
inaugurated. 

“There can be nothing more beautiful,” said Claude, 
“than the two first groups, the fiddler, and then the 
bride with the old peasant.” 

“And the strapping peasant girl, then,” added Mahou- 
deau; “the one who is turning round and beckoning! 
I had a great mind to take her for tlie model of a 
statue.” 

“And that gust of wind among the corn,” added 
Gagni^re, “and the pretty bit of the boy and girl 
skylarking in the distance.” 

Bongrand was listening with an embarrassed air, 
and a smile of inward suffering; and on Fagerolles 
asking him what he was doing just then, he answered, 
with a shrug of his shoulders: 

“ Well, nothing; some little things — T sha’n’t exhibit 
this time. I should like to find a subject which would 
prove a blow! Ah, you fellows are happy to be still 
at the bottom of the hill. One has such good legs, 
one feels so plucky when it’s a question of getting 
up. And then when once one’s atop, the deuce take 
it! the worries commence. A real torture, fisticuffs, 
efforts which must be constantly renewed, lest one 
should slip down too quickly! On rny word! one 
would prefer being below, for the pleasure of having 
still everything to do! Ah, you may laugh, you’ll 
see for yourself some day!” 

They were, indeed, laughing, thinking it all a para- 
dox, or the affectation of a celebrity which they how- 
ever excused. To bo hailed like Bongrand with the 
name of master was that not the height of bliss? 
His two arms resting on the back of his chair, he 
listened to them in silence, leisurely puffing his pipe. 

Meanwhile, Dubuche, who had rather domesticated 
tastes, helped Sandoz in handing the tea round, and 
the din continued. Fagerolles related a story about 


112 


BOHEMIAN LIFE. 


Daddy Maigras and a female cousin by marriage, 
whom the dealer offered as a model. Then they 
began to talk of models. However, suddenly the 
tumult increased again, Gagni^re was being congratu- 
lated on the subject of a connoisseur whose acquaint- 
ance he had made in the Palais Koyal one afternoon, 
while the band played, an eccentric gentleman living- 
on a small income, and who never indulged in any 
other extravagance than that of buying pictures. 
While laughing, the other artists asked for the gen- 
tleman’s address. Then they fell foul of the picture 
dealers, dirty blackguards, who starved artists. It 
was really' a pity that connoisseurs mistrusted painters 
to such a degree as to insist upon a middleman under 
the impression that they were making a better bar- 
gain. This question of bread ^nd butter made them 
yet more excited, though Claude showed a magnificent 
contempt. One was robbed, no doubt, but what did 
that matter, if one had painted a masterpiece, and 
had some water to drink? Jory, having again 
expressed some low ideas about lucre, aroused general 
indignation. Out with the journalist! He was asked 
stringent questions. Would he sell his pen? Would 
he not sooner chop off his wrist tlian write aught 
against his convictions? But they scarcely waited 
for his answer, for the excitement was still on the 
increase; it became the superb exaltation of early 
manhood, contempt for the whole world, the undivided 
passion for work, freed from all human infirmities, 
poised in the sky like the sun. Their desire was to 
consume themselves in this brazier of their own kin- 
dling ! 

Bongrand, who had not stirred the while, made a 
vague gesture of suffering at sight of this illimited 
confidence, this boisterous joy in the prospect of 
attack. He forgot the hundred paintings which had 


BOHEMIAN LIFE. 


113 


brought him his glory, he was thinking of the work, 
the sketch of which was on his easel now. Taking 
his cutty from between his lips, he murmured, his 
eyes glistening with a tender concern: “Oh, youth, 
youth [ ” 

Until two in the morning, Sandoz, who seemed 
ubiquitous, kept on pouring fresh supplies of hot water 
in the teapot. Kising from the neighborhood, laid low 
by sleep, one now only heard the miawing of a tabby. 
They all talked at random, intoxicated by their' own 
words, hoarse with having shouted so much, their 
eyes scorched, and when at last they made up their 
minds to go, Sandoz took the lamp to show them a 
light over the banisters, saying very softly: 

“Don’t make a noise, my mother is asleep.” 

The hushed footfall of their boots on the stairs died 
away at last, and a deep silence pervaded the house. 

It struck four. Claude, who had accompanied Bon- 
grand, was still talking to him in the deserted streets. 
He did not want to go to bed; he was waiting for 
daylight, with an impatient fury, to set to work at 
his picture again. This time he felt certain of paint- 
ing a masterpiece, exalted as he was by this happy 
day of good-fellowship, his mind painfully, pregnant 
with a world of things. He had discovered at last 
what painting meant, and he pictured himself re- 
entering his studio as one returns into the presence of a 
beloved woman, his heart throbbing violently, regretting 
at present even this one day’s absence, which seemed 
to him endless desertion. He would go straight to his 
canvas, and realize his dream in one sitting. How- 
ever, at every dozen steps, in the flickering light of 
the gas lamps, Bongrand caught him by a button of 
his coat, repeating to him that this confounded paint- 
ing was simply a damnable trade. Sharp as he, Bon- 
grand, was supposed to be, he did not understand it 


114 


BOHEMIAN LIFE. 


yet. At every new work he felt as if he were mak- 
ing a debut; it was enough to make -one smash one’s 
head against the wall. The sky was now brightening, 
some nlarket gardener’s carts began rolling down 
towards the Central Markets; and the pair continued 
chattering, each talking for himself, in a loud voice 
beneath the paling stars. 


Christine’s sacrifice. 


115 


CHAPTER lY. 

Christine’s sacrifice. 

S IX weeks later, Claude was painting one morning 
amidst a flood of sunshine that fell through the 
large . window of his studio. Constant rain had made 
the middle of August very dull, but courage for work 
returned with the blue sky. His great picture did not 
make much progress, albeit he worked at it during 
long, silent mornings, like the obstinate, struggling 
artist that he was. 

Suddenly there came a knock at the door. He 
thought it was Madame Joseph, the doorkeeper, bring- 
ing up his breakfast, and as the key was always in 
the door, he simply called out: “Come in!” 

The door had opened; there was a slight rustle, 
and then all was still. He continued to paint without 
even turning his head. But this quivering silence, 
the consciousness of some vague, gentle breathing, made 
him fldgety at last. He looked up, and felt amazed; 
a woman was there, clad in a light-tinted dress, her 
features half-hidden by a white veil, and he did not 
know her, and she was holding a bunch of roses, 
which completed his bewilderment. 

All at once he recognized her. 

“You, mademoiselle! Well, I certainly didn’t expect 
you.” 

It was Christine. He had been unable to restrain 
this somewhat unamiable exclamation, which was a 
cry from the heart itself. At first he had certainly 
thought of her; then, as the days went by, as for 


116 


cheistine’s sacrifice 


nearly two months she had given no sign of life, she 
had become but a fleeting and regretted vision, a charm- 
ing profile, dissolved into space, and never to be beheld 
again. 

“Yes, monsieur, it’s I. I wished to come. I thought 
it was wrong not to come and thank you — ” 

She blushed and stammered, at a loss for words. 
She was out of breath, no doubt with coming up the 
stairs, for her heart was beating fast. What! was this 
visit out of place, although so long debated, and although 
at last it had seemed quite natural to her ? The worst 
was that, in passing along the quay, she had bought 
this bunch of roses with the delicate intention of show- 
ing her gratitude to the young fellow, and the flowers 
now dreadfully embarrassed her. How was she to give 
them to him? What would he think of her? The 
impropriety of the whole proceeding had only struck 
her as she opened the dodr. 

But Claude, more embarrassed still, had resorted to 
exaggerated politeness. He had thrown aside his palette 
and was turning the studio upside down to clear a 
chair. 

“Pray be seated, mademoiselle. This is really a 
surprise. You are too kind.” 

Once seated, Christine recovered her equanimity. 
He looked so droll with his wild, sweeping gestures ; 
she felt so conscious of his shyness that she began 
to smile, and she bravely held out to him the bunch 
of roses. 

“Look here; I wished to show you that I am not 
ungrateful.” 

At first he said nothing, but stood staring at her, 
thunderstruck. When he saw, though, that she was 
not making fun of him, he shook both her hands, as 
if to dislocate them. Then he at once put the flowers 
in his water-jug, repeating: 

“Ah! now you are a good fellow, you really are. 


Christine’s sacrifice. 


117 


This is the first time I pay that compliment to a 
woman, honor bright.” 

He came back to her, and, looking straight into her 
eyes, he asked: 

“Then you have not altogether forgotten me?” 

“ You see that I have not,” she replied, laughing. 

“Why, then, did you wait two months before com- 
ing to see me ? ” 

Again she blushed. The falsehood she was about 
to tell revived her embarrassment for a moment. 

“But you know that I am not my own mistress,” 
she said. “Oh, Madame Vanzade is very kind to me, 
only she is a great invalid, and never goes out. But 
she grew anxious as to my health and compelled me 
to go out to breathe the fresh air.” 

She did not allude to the shame which she had 
felt during the first few days after her adventure on 
the Quai de Bourbon. Finding herself in safety, 
beneath the old lady’s roof, the recollection of the 
night she had spent in a man’s room had filled her 
with remorse as if she had sinned; but she fancied at 
last that she had succeeded in dismissing that man 
from her mind. It was no longer anything but a bad 
dream, the outlines of which grew more indistinct day 
by day. Then without knowing how, amidst the pro- 
found quietude of her existence, the image had 
emerged once more from the shadow, becoming more 
precise and more sharply outlined, to a degree that it 
proved the constant preoccupation of her daily life. 
Why should she forget him? She had nothing to 
reproach him with, on the contrary, she felt she was 
his debtor. The thought of seeing him again, repelled 
at first, struggled against later on, had at last turned 
to an all-absorbing idea. Each evening temptation 
came strong upon her in the solitude of her own 
room, in the shape of an uncomfortable sensation that 
irritated her, of a desire of which she herself was 


113 


Christine’s sacrifice. 


scarcely aware, and she had only calmed down some- 
what on attributing her troubled state of mind to a 
wish of showing her gratitude. She was so utterly 
alone, she felt so stifled in this sleepy abode, the 
exuberance of youth seethed so strongly within her, 
her heart craved so desperately for friendship! 

“So I took advantage of my first day out,” she con- 
tinued. “And besides, the weather was so nice this 
morning after all the dull rain.” 

Claude, feeling very happy and standing before her, 
also confessed himself, but he had nothing to hide. 

“As for me, I did not dare think of you any more. 
You are like one of the fairies of the story-books, who 
spring from the floor and. disappear into the walls at 
the very moment one least expects it; aren’t you 
now? i said to myself: ‘It’s all over; it was perhaps 
only in my fancy that she came to this studio.’ And 
here you are. Well, I am pleased at it, very much 
pleased, indeed.” 

Smiling, but embarrassed, Christine averted her head, 
pretending to look around her. But her smile soon 
died away. This ferocious style of painting which she 
again beheld, these glaring sketches of the South, the 
terrible anatomical accuracy of the figures, chilled her 
as they had done on the first occasion. She became 
really afraid again, and she said gravely, in an altered 
voice : 

“I am disturbing you; I am going.” 

“But not at all, not at all,” exclaimed Claude, pre- 
venting her from rising up. “It does me good to 
have a talk with you, for I was working myself to 
death. Oh! that confounded picture; it’s killing me 
as it is.” 

And Christine, lifting her eyes, looked at the large 
picture, the canvas that had been turned to the wall 
on the other occasion, and which she had vainly 
wished to see. 


Christine’s sacrifice. 


119 


The background — the dark glade pierced by a flood 
of sunlight — was still only broadly brushed in. But 
the two little wrestlers — the fair one and the dark — 
almost finished by now, stood out clearly in the light 
with their fresh tints. In the foreground, the gentle- 
man in the velveteen jacket, begun afresh thrice, had 
been left in distress. The painter was especially work- 
ing at the principal figure, at the woman lying on the 
grass. He had not touched the head again. He was 
battling with the body, changing his model every 
week, so despondent at not being able to satisfy him- 
self that for a couple of days he had been trying to 
improve the figure from imagination, without recourse 
to nature, although he boasted that he never invented. 

Christine at once recognized herself. This girl 
sprawling on the grass, one arm behind her head, 
smiling with lowered eyelids, was she. This girl had 
her features, and the idea revolted her as much as if 
she had had the same body as herself. She was 
above all wounded by the wildness of the painting, 
so brutal, indeed, that she considered herself abomina- 
bly insulted. She did not understand that kind of 
art; she thought it execrable-, and felt a hatred against 
it, the instinctive hatred of an enemy. She rose up 
at last, and curtly repeated: “I must be going.” 

Claude watched her attentively, both grieved and 
surprised by this sudden change of manner. 

“Going already?” 

“Yes, they are waiting for me. Good-bye.” 

And she had already reached the door before he 
could take her hand and venture to ask her: 

“When shall I see you again?” 

She allowed her hand to remain in his. For a 
moment she seemed to hesitate. 

“I don’t know. I am so busy.” 

Then she withdrew her hand and went off, hastily, 
saying: “One of these days, when I can. Good-bye.” 


120 


Christine’s sacrifice. 


Claude remained stock-still on the threshold. lie 
wondered what had come over her again to cause this 
sudden coolness, this covert irritation. He closed the 
door, and walked about, with dangling arms, and with- 
out understanding, seeking vainly for the phrase, the 
gesture that could have offended her. And he in his 
turn became angry, and launched an oath into space, 
with a terrific shrug of the shoulders, as if to rid 
himself of this silly preoccupation. Did a fellow ever 
understand women? But the sight of the roses, over- 
lapping^ the water-jug, pacified him; they smelt so nice. 
Their scent pervaded the whole studio, and silently he 
resumed his work amidst the perfume. 

Two more months passed by. During the first days 
Claude, at the slightest stir of a morning, when Mad- 
ame Joseph brought him up his breakfast or his let- 
ters, quickly turned his head, and could not control a 
gesture of disappointment. He no longer went out 
until after four, and the doorkeeper having told him 
one evening, on his return home, that a young girl 
had called to see him at about five, he had only 
grown calm on ascertaining that the visitor was merely 
a model, Zod Piedefer. Then, as the days went by, 
he was taken with a furious fit of work, becoming 
unapproachable to every one, indulging in such violent 
theories that even his friends did not venture to con- 
tradict him. He swept the world from his path with 
one gesture; there was no longer anything but paint- 
ing left. One might murder one’s parents, comrades, 
and women especially. From this terrible fever he had 
fallen into an abominable despondency, a week of 
impotence and doubt, a whole week of torture, during 
which he had fancied himself struck silly. And he 
was getting over it, he had resumed his usual life, his 
resigned and solitary struggle with his great picture, 
when one foggy morning, towards the end of October, 
he started and hastily set aside his palette. There. 


Christine’s sacrifice. 


121 


had been no knock, but he had just recognized the 
footfall coming up the stairs. He opened the door and 
she walked in. She had come at last. 

Christine that day wore a large cloak of gray 
material, wrapping her up from neck to heel. Her 
little velvet hat was dark, and the fog outside had 
pearled her black lace veil. But he thought her look- 
ing very cheerful, with her slight winter shiver upon 
her. She began at once to make excuses for having 
so long delayed returning. She smiled at him in her 
pretty, candid manner, confessed that she had hesitated, 
and that she had almost made up her mind to come 
no more. Yes, she had her own opinions about things, 
which she felt sure he understood. As it happened, 
he did not understand at all — he had no wish to under- 
stand, seeing that she was there. It was quite suffi- 
cient that she was not vexed with him, that she would 
consent to come in now and then like a chum. There 
were no explanations; they kept their respective tor- 
ments and the struggles of recent times to themselves. 
For nearly an hour they chattered together right 
pleasantl}^ with nothing hidden or antagonistic left 
between them, as if an understanding had been arrived 
at, unbeknown to them, and while they were far apart. 
She did not even appear to notice the sketches and 
studies along the walls. For a moment she looked 
fixedly at the large picture, at the figure of the 
woman lying on the grass under the blazing, golden 
sun. No, it was not like herself, the girl had neither 
her face nor her body. How silly to have fancied 
that this horrid mess of color was herself. And her 
friendship for the young fellow was heightened by a 
touch of pity; he could not even convey a likeness. 
When going she shook both his hands. 

“You know, I shall come back again.” 

“Yes, in two months.” 

“No, next week. You’ll see, next Thursday.” . 


122 


Christine’s sacrifice. 


On tlie Thursday she punctually returned. After 
that she did not miss a week. At first she had no 
particular day, simply taking advantage of her oppor- 
tunities; then she selected Monday, the day set aside 
by Madame Vanzade so that she might have a walk 
in the fresh, open air of the Bois de Boulogne. She 
had to be back by eleven, and walked the whole way 
very quickly, coming in all aglow from having run, 
for it was a tidy stretch from Passy to the Quai de 
Bourbon. During four winter months, from October 
to February, she came like that in the drenching rain, 
in the mists from the Seine, in the pale sunlight that 
threw a little warmth on the quays. Indeed, after the 
first month, she at times arrived unexpectedly on other 
days, taking advantage of some errand in town to look 
in, and she could only stay for a couple of minutes; 
they had barely time enough to say, “How do you 
do?” she was already scampering down the stairs again, 
exclaiming, “Good-bye.” 

And now Claude learned to know Christine. With 
his everlasting mistrust of woman a suspicion had 
remained to him, the suspicion of some love adventure 
in the provinces; but the young girl’s soft eyes and 
bright laughter had carried all before them; he felt 
her to be as innocent as a big child. As soon as she 
arrived, quite unembarrassed, feeling at her ease, as if 
with a friend, she began to indulge in a ceaseless flow 
of chatter. She had told him a score of times about 
her childhood at Clermont, and she constantly reverted 
to it. On the evening that her father, Captain Halle- 
grain, had died suddenly, she and her mother had been 
to church. She perfectly remembered their retuiai 
home and the horrible night that followed; the cap- 
tain, very stout and muscular, stretched on a mattress, 
with his lower jaw protruding to such a degree that 
in her girlish memory she could not picture him other- 
wise. She also had that same jaw, and when her 


CHRISTINE’S SACRIFICE. 


123 


motlier had not known how to master her, she had 
often cried out: “Ah, you Punch, you’ll eat your 
heart’s blood out like your father.” Poor mother! 
how she, Christine, had worried her with her love of 
horseplay, with her mad fits of noise. As far back as 
she could remember, she pictured her seated at the 
same window, a slim little woman, quietly painting her 
fans, with very soft eyes, the only thing she had inher- 
ited of her. When people wanted to please her mother 
they told her, “She has got your eyes.” And she 
smiled, happy in the thought of having contributed at 
least this touch of sweetness to her daughter’s features. 
After the death of her husband, she worked so late as 
to endanger her eyesight. But how else could she 
have lived? Her widow’s pension — five hundred francs 
per annum — barely sufficed for the needs of her child. 
During five years the latter had seen her mother grow 
thinner and paler, wasting away a little bit more each 
day until she became nothing but a mere shadow. And 
now she felt remorse at not having been more obe- 
dient, at having driven her mother to despair by her 
want of application, beginning each week with mag- 
nificent intentions, promising that she would soon 
assist her in earning money. But her arms got the 
fidgets, in spite of all her efforts; the moment she 
became quiet she fell ill. Then one morning her mother 
had been unable to get up, and had died; her voice 
too weak to make itself heard, her eyes full of big 
tears. Her mother was always present to her mind, ^ 
like that, already dead, and with her eyes wide open, 
still weeping and fixed on her. 

At other times, Christine, questioned by Claude 
about Clermont, forgot all these sorrows to indulge 
more cheerful recollections. 

When all the reminiscences of Clermont were ex- 
hausted, Claude wanted to hear about her life at 
Madame Vanzade’s, and each week she gave him some 


124 


Christine’s sacrifice. 


fresh particulars. In the small house at Passy, silent 
and shut off from the outer world, life was regular, 
with no more noise about it than the weakened tic-tac 
of an old-fashioned timepiece. Two antiquated domes- 
tics, a cook and a man servant, who had been with 
tlie family for forty years, alone glided along the des- 
erted rooms, their slippers not even creaking, but with 
the silent footfall of a couple of ghosts. Now and 
then, at very long intervals, there came a visitor: 
some octogenarian general so dried up that his weight 
scarcely pressed the carpet. It was the home of 
shadows, through the Venetian blinds the sun only 
penetrated with the gleam of a night light. Since 
madame — having become paralyzed in the knees 
and stone-blind — no longer left her room, she had 
no other recreation than . listening to the reading 
of religious books. Ah ! those endless readings, how 
they weighed upon the young girl at times! If she 
had only known a trade, how gladly she would have 
cut out dresses, concocted bonnets, or goffered the 
petals of artificial flowers. And to think that she 
was capable of nothing, that she had been taught 
everything, and that there was only enough stuff in 
her for a salaried drudge, a semi-domestic. And she 
suffered horribly in this stiff, pent-up dwelling that 
smelt of the tomb. She was seized once more with the 
vertigo of her childhood, like when she had wanted 
to compel herself to work to please her mother ; her 
blood rebelled; she would have liked 'to shout and 
jump about, in her desire for life. But madame treated 
her so gently, sending her away from her own room 
as it were, ordering her to take long walks, that she 
felt full of remorse when, on her return from the Quai 
de Bourbon, she was obliged to tell a falsehood; to 
talk of the Bois de Boulogne; invent some ceremony 
at church where she now never set her feet. Madame 
seemed to take to her more and more every day ; 


chkistine’s sacrifice. 


125 


there were constant presents, a silk dress, a tiny gold 
watch, even some underlinen. She herself was very 
fond of Madame Yanzade; she had wept one day when 
the latter called her her daughter; she had sworn 
never to leave her now, in her heartfelt pity at see- 
ing her so old and helpless. 

“Well,” said Claude one morning, “you’ll be re- 
warded; she’ll leave you her money.” 

Christine looked astonished. “Do you think so? It 
is said that she is worth three millions! No, no, I 
have never dreamt of such a thing, and I won’t. 
What would become of me?” 

Claude had averted his head, and then he hastily 
added; “Well, you’d become rich, that’s all. But, no 
doubt, she’ll first of all marry you off — ” 

On hearing this, Christine could hold out no longer, 
but interrupted him with a burst of laughter. “To one 
of her old friends; perhaps the general who has a 
silver chain! What a good joke!” 

So far tiiey had gone no further than chumming 
like old friends. He was almost as new to life as she, 
having had nothing but chance adventures, living in 
an ideal world of his own, amid romantic events. To 
see each other in secret like this, from pure friend- 
ship, without anything more tender than a cordial 
shake of the hand at her arrival, and another one on 
separating, seemed to them quite natural. As for 
Claude, he no longer even questioned himself as to 
her possible knowledge of life and of men, amid her 
girl’s ignorance. It was she who scented that he was 
shy, who looked at' him now and then fixedly', with 
the dreamy look dhd disturbed wonder of passion, not 
aware of its own existence. But as yet nothing ardent 
or agitating spoilt the pleasure they felt in being 
together. Their hands remained cool; they spoke 
cheerfully on all subjects; they sometimes argued like 
friends, sure not to fall out. Only this friendship 


126 


CHRISTINE’S SACRIFICE. 


became so strong that they could no longer live with- 
out seeing each other. 

The moment Christine came, Claude took the key 
from outside the door. She herself insisted upon this, 
lest some one might disturb them. After a few visits 
she had taken absolute possession of the studio. She 
seemed to be at home in it. She was worried by the 
idea of making the place a little more tidy, for she 
felt a nervous suffering amidst such disorder. But it 
was hot an easy job. The painter had strictly forbid- 
den Madame Joseph to sweep up, lest the dust should 
get on the fresh paint. So, on the first occasions when 
his companion attempted to clean up a bit, he watched 
her with an anxious and supplicating look. What was 
the good of changing the place of things? Didn’t it 
suffice to have tliem at hand? However, she exhib- 
ited such gay obstinacy, she seemed so happy to play 
the housewife, that he had let her have her own way 
at last. And now, the moment she had arrived and 
taken off her gloves, she pinned up her dress not to 
soil it, displaced everything, set the spacious studio 
in order in the twinkling of an eye. There was no 
longer a pile of cinders before the stove; the screen 
hid the bedstead and the washstand; the couch was 
brushed; the wardrobe rubbed down and shiny; the 
deal table cleared of the crockery, and without a stain 
of paint; and above the chairs, symmetrically ranged 
along the walls, against which the spanned easels were 
propped, the large cuckoo clock, with the blooming 
pink flowers on its dial, seemed to tick more sonor- 
ously. Altogether it was magnificent; one would not 
have recognized the place. He, stupefied, watched her 
trotting to and fro, twisting about, singing as she went. 
Was this then the lazybones who had dreadful head- 
aches at the least bit of work? But she laughed: at 
headwork, yes; but exertion with her hands and feet 
did her good, seemed to straighten her like a young 


CHRISTINE’S SACRIFICE. 


127 


slioot. She confessed, as she would have confessed a 
depraved taste, her liking for lowly household cares; 
a liking which had greatly worried her mother, whose 
educational ideal consisted in artistic attainments; the 
governess with soft hands, touching nothing vulgar. 
And how Christine had been chided when caught as 
a little girl sweeping, dusting, playing at cook, with 
delight. Even now-a-days, if she had been able to 
indulge in a bout with the dust at Madame Yanzade’s, 
she would have felt less bored. But what would they 
have said to that? She would no longer have been 
considered a lady. And so she came to satisfy her long- 
ings at the Quai de Bourbon, panting with so much 
exercise, all aglow, her eyes glistening with a woman’s 
delight at biting into the forbidden fruit. 

Claude by this time grew conscious of the cares of 
a woman around him. In order to make her sit down 
and chat quietly, he asked her now and then to sew 
a torn cuff or coat-tail. She herself had offered to 
look over his linen; but it was no longer the ardor 
of the housewife, eager to be up and doing. First of 
all, she did not know how to wol-k; she held her 
needle like a girl brought up in contempt of sewing. 
Besides, the enforced quiescence and attention, the 
small stitches to be looked to one by one, exasperated 
her. The studio was bright with cleanliness like a 
drawing-room, but Claude himself remained in rags, 
and they both joked about it, thinking it great fun. 

How happy those months were that they spent 
together, those four months of frost and rain whiled 
away in the studio, where the red-hot stove roared 
like an organ-pipe. The winter seemed to isolate them 
still more. When the snow covered' the adjacent 
roofs, when the sparrows fluttered against the window, 
they smiled at feeling warm, and at being lost, as it 
were, amidst the large, silent city. And they were not 
always confined to this one little nook, for she allowed 


128 


CHRISTINE’S SACRIFICE. 


him at last to see her home. For a long while she had 
insisted upon going away by herself, feeling ashamed 
at being seen in the streets on a man’s arm. Then 
one day when the rain fell all of a sudden, she was 
obliged to let him come down-stairs with an umbrella. 
The rain having ceased almost immediately, she had 
sent him back when they reached the other side of 
the Pont Louis-Philippe. Tliey had only remained a 
few moments beside tlie parapet, looking at the Mail, 
happy at being together in the open air. Below, 
moored against the quay, large barges full of apples 
were ranged four rows deep, so closely wedged together 
that the planks thrown across them made a continuous 
path for the women and children running to and fro. 
They felt amused at seeing this quantity of fruit, these 
enormous piles littering the banks, the round baskets 
being handed about, while a strong smell, almost a 
stench, a smell of cider in fermentation, mingled with 
the moist atmosphere of the river. 

The week after that, when the sun again showed 
itself, and when Claude extolled the solitude of the 
quays around the Isle Saint Louis, she consented to 
take a walk. They strolled up the Quai de Bourbon 
and the Quai d’Anjou, stopping at every step, interested 
in the scenes of river life, in the dragger, whose 
buckets grated against their chains, in the floating 
wash-house, resounding with the noise of a quarrel, in 
a steam crane busy discharging a lighter. She, above 
all, did not cease to wonder. Was it possible that 
this Quai des Ormes, so rife with life opposite, that 
this Quai Henri IV., with its broad embankment and 
lower shore, where bands of children and dogs rolled 
over and over in the sand, that this horizon, that of 
an active, densely populated capital, was the same 
accursed perspective that had appeared to her for a 
moment in a gory flash on the night of her arrival? 

Tliey went round the point of the island, strolling 


CHRISTINE’S SACRIFICE. 


129 


more leisurely still, to enjoy the solitude and tran- 
quillity brought hither, as it were, by the old historic 
mansions. They watched the water seething between 
the wooden piles of the Estacade, and then returned by 
way of the Quai de B^thune and the Quai d’Orl^ns, 
feeling drawn closer to each other by the widening 
of the stream, keeping elbow to elbow at sight of the 
vast flow, with their eyes fixed on the distant Halle 
aux Yins and the Jardin des Plantes. In the pale 
sky, the cupolas of the public buildings assumed a 
bluish hue. When they reached the Pont St. Louis 
he had to point out Notre-Dame by name to her, for 
she did not recognize the monument from the rear, 
colossal and crouching down between its flying but- 
tresses, which looked like sprawling paws, and domi- 
nated by the double head of its towers, above its long 
leviathan spine. Their find, that day, was the western 
point of the island, similar to the prow of a ship 
which is ever riding at anchor, and, floating between 
two swift currents, seems to be sighting Paris with- 
out being able to get into port. They went down 
some very steep steps, and discovered a solitary bank 
planted with lofty trees. It was a delicious refuge — 
a hermitage in the midst of a crowd. Paris was 
rumbling around, on the quays, on the bridges, while 
they on the water s edge felt the joy of being alone, 
ignored by the whole world. From that day forth 
this bank became their little rustic coign, their open- 
air resort, where they took advantage of the sunny 
hours when the great heat of the studio, where the 
red-hot stove kept roaring, oppressed them too much, 
and began to heat their hands with a fever of 
which they were afraid. 

Nevertheless, Christine had so far objected to be 
accompanied farther than the Mail. At the Quai des 
Ormes she always bade Claude go back, as if Paris, 
with her crowds and possible encounters, began at 
8 


130 


CHRISTINE’S SACRIFICE. 


this long stretch of quays which she had to traverse 
on her way liome. But Passy was so far off, and she 
felt so dull at having to go such a distance alone, 
that gradually she gave way. She began by allowing 
Claude to see her as far as the Hotel de Ville; then 
as far as the Pont-Neuf; at last as far as the Tuileries. 
She forgot the danger; they walked arm in arm like 
a young married couple; and this constantly repeated 
promenade, this- leisurely journey over the self-same 
ground by the riverside, became invested with an 
infinite charm, a happiness such as scarcely to leave 
scope for a more perfect one in after times. They 
truly belonged to each other, though they had not 
erred. It seemed as if the very soul of the great city, 
rising from the river, wrapped them around with all 
the tenderness that had throbbed behind the gray 
stone walls across the lapse of ages. 

Since the nipping colds of December, Christine only 
came in the afternoon, and it was about four o’clock, 
when the sun was sinking, that Claude escorted her 
back on his arm. On days when the sky was clear, 
the moment they had crossed the Pont Louis-Philippe, 
the long line of quays stretched away immense into 
S])ace. From one end to the other the slanting sun 
powdered the houses on the right bank with a golden 
dust, while, on the left, the islets, the buildings, stood 
out in a black line against the blazing glory of the 
sunset. Between the sombre and the brilliant margin, 
the spangled river sparkled, cut in twain every now 
and then by the elongated bars of its bridges; the 
five arches of the Pont Notre-Dame showing under 
the single span of the Pont d’Arcole, then the Pont- 
au-Change and the Pont-Neuf, each displaying beyond 
its own shadow a luminous patch, a sheet of bluish 
satin, growing paler here and there as if reflected in 
a mirror. And while the dusky outlines on the left 
terminated in the silhouette of the pointed towers of 


CHRISTINE'S SACRIFICE. 


131 


the Palais de Justice, sharply drawn against the sky, 
a gentle curve undulated to the right, stretching away 
so far that the Pavilion de Flore, standing forth like 
a citadel, seemed a fairy castle, bluey, dreamlike and 
vague, amidst the rosy mist on the horizon. But 
Claude and Christine, with the sunlight streaming on 

them, under the leafless plane trees, turned away from 
the dazzlement, preferring to gaze at certain spots, 
one above all — a block of old houses just above the 
Mail. In front, below, there was a series of one- 
storied tenements, little huckster and fishing-tackle 
shops, with flat terrace roofs, ornamented with laurel 
and Virginia creeper. And in the rear rose loftier, 
but decrepit dwellings, with linen hung out to dry at 
their windows, a collection of fantastic structures, a 
confused mass of woodwork and masonry, walls over* 
toppling, and hanging gardens, where colored glass 
balls shone out like stars. They walked on, leaving 
behind them the bare walls of the barracks and the 
Hotel de Yille, feeling much more interest in the 
Citd across the river, pent up between its lofty smooth 
embankments rising from the water. Above the 
darkened houses rose the towers of Hotre-Dame, as 
resplendent as if they had been newly gilt. Then the 
second-hand bookstalls began to invade the qua3^s; 
down below a lighter full of charcoal was struggling 
against the strong current beneath an arch of the 
Pont Hotre-Dame. And then, on the days when the 
flower market was held, they stopped, despite the 
inclement weather, to inhale the scent of the first violets 
and the early gillyflowers. On their left the bank 
became visible for a long stretch ; beyond the pepper- 
caster turrets of the Palais de Justice, the small, murky 
tenements of the Quai de Tllorloge showed as far as 
the clump of trees midway across the Pont-lSTeuf; 

then, as they went farther on, other quays emerged 
from the mist, in the far distance; the Quai Voltaire, 


132 


chkistine’s sacrifice 


tlie Quai Malaquais, the dome of tlie Institute of 
France, the square building of the Mint, a long gray 
line of frontages of which they could not even dis- 
tinguish the windows, a promontory of roofs, which, 
with their stacks of chimney-pots, looked like a rug- 
ged cliff, dipping down in a phosphorescent sea. In 
front, however, the Pavilion de Flore was divested of 
its dreamy aspect, and became solidified in the final 
sun blaze. Then right and left, on either bank of the 
river, came the long vistas of the Boulevard de 
Sebastopol and the Boulevard du Palais, the handsome 
new buildings of the Quai de la Mdgisserie, with the 
new Prefecture of Police across the water; and the old 
Pont-Neuf, with its statue of Henri IV. looking like a 
splash of ink ; the Louvre, the Tuileries, followed, 
and beyond Grenelle there was a far stretching per- 
spective, the slopes of Sevres, the country bathed in a 
stream of sun ra3^s. Claude never went farther. 
Christine always made him stop just before they 
reached the Pont Royal, near the fine trees beside 
Vigier’s swimming baths, and when they turned 
round to shake hands once more in the golden sun- 
set now flashing into crimson, they looked back and 
on the horizon espied the Isle Saint Louis, whence 
they had come, the indistinct extremity of the capi- 
tal which night was already reaching, under the 
slate -tinted eastern sky. 

Ah ! what splendid sunsets they beheld during these 
weekly strolls. The sun accompanied them, as it 
were, amid the throbbing gayety of the quavs, the 
life of the river, the dancing ripples of the currents’ 
amid the attraction of the shops, heated like conser- 
vatories, the potted flowers of the seed merchants, and 
the noisy cages displayed in front of the bird fanciers, 
amid all the din of sound and wealth of color which 
make the waterside the ever youthful part of cities. 
As they proceeded, the ardent blaze of the western 


CHRISTINE’S SACRIFICE. 


133 


sky became purple on their left, above the dark line 
of houses, and the orb of day seemed to wait for 
them, gradually getting lower, slowly rolling towards 
the distant roofs, when once they had passed the 
Pont Notre-Dame in front of the widening stream. 
In no ancient forest, on no mountain road, beyond no 
grassy plain will there ever be such triumphal sunsets 
as behind the cupola of the Institute. It is Paris 
retiring to rest in her glory. At each of their walks 
the aspect of the conflagration changed; fresh furnaces 
^dded their glow to the crown of flames. One evening, 
when a shower surprised them, the sun, showing 
behind the downpour, lit up the whole rain cloud, and 
upCn their heads there fell a spray of inflamed water, 
irisated with pink and azure. On the days when the 
sky was clear, however, the sun, like a fiery ball, 
descended majestically in an unruffled sapphire lake; 
for a moment the black cupola of the Institute 
impinged its shape and made it look like the waning 
moon; then the globe took a violet tinge and was 
submerged at last in the lake that had become blood- 
red. Already, in February, the planet described a 
wider carve, and fell straight into the Seine, which 
seemed to seethe on the horizon as at the contact of 
red-hot iron. However, the grander scenes, the vast 
fairy pictures of space, only blazed on cloudy evenings. 
Then, according to the whim of the wind, there were 
seas of sulphur splashing against coral reefs; there 
were palaces and towers, marvels of architecture, piled 
upon each other, burning and crumbling with torrents 
of lava streaming from between their gaps; or else 
the orb which had disappeared, hidden behind a veil 
of clouds, suddenly transpierced the rampart with such 
a press of light that shafts of sparks shot forth, start- 
ing from one horizon to the other, and as plainly 
visible as a volley of golden arrows. And then the 
twilight fell, and they said good-bye to each other, 


134 


CHRISTINE'S SACRIFICE. 


with their eyes still full of the final dazzlement. They 
felt that this triumphal Paris was the accomplice of 
the joy which they could not exhaust, though ever 
resuming together this promenade along the old stone 
parapets. 

One day, however, there happened what Claude had 
always secretly feared. Christine no longer seemed to 
believe in the possibility of meeting some one who 
knew her. In fact, was there such a person? She 
would always pass along like this, remaining altogether 
unknown. He, however, thought of his friends, and 
at times felt a kind of tremor when he fancied he 
recognized in the distance the back of some acquaint- 
ance. Pie was troubled by a feeling of delicacy; the 
idea that some one might stare at the young girl, 
approach them, and perhaps joke, gave him intolerable 
worry. And that very evening, as she was close beside 
him on his arm, and they were approaching the Pont 
des Arts, he fell upon Sandoz and Dubuche, who were 
coming down the steps of the bridge. Impossible to 
avoid them, they were almost face to face, besides, 
his friends must have seen him, for they smiled. 
Claude, very pale, kept advancing, and he thought it 
all up, on seeing Dubuche take a step towards him; 
but Sandoz was already holding the architect back, 
and he led him away. They passed on with an indif- 
ferent air and disappeared into the court-yard of the 
Louvre without as much as turning round. They had 
both just recognized the original of the pastel sketch, 
which the painter hid with the jealousy of a lover. 
Christine, chattering away, had noticed nothing. Claude, 
his heart bumping, answered her in monosyllables, 
moved to tears, brimming over with gratitude to his 
old chums for their discreet behavior. 

A few days later on he had another shock. He. did 
not expect Christine, and had made an appointment with 
Sandoz; then as she had run up to spend an hour — it 


CHRISTINE’S SACRIFICE. 


135 


was one of those surprises that delighted them — they 
had just withdrawn the key, as usual, when there 
came a familiar knock with the fist on the door. 
Claude at once recognized the rap, and felt so upset 
at the mishap that he overturned a chair. After that 
it was impossible to pretend to be out. But she had 
turned so pale. She implored him with such a wild 
gesture that he remained rooted to the spot, holding 
his breath. The knocks continued, and a voice called 
out, “Claude, Claude.” He still did not stir, debating 
with himself, however, with ashen lips and downcast 
eyes. There was a great silence, and then the foot- 
steps went down, making the stairs creak. Claude’s 
breast heaved with intense sadness; he felt it burst- 
ing with remorse at the sound of each retreating step, 
as if he had denied the friendship of his whole youth. 

However, one afternoon there came another knock, 
and Claude had only time to whisper despairingly: 
“The key has been left in the door.” 

In fact, Christine had forgotten to take it out. She 
became scared and darted behind the screen, where 
she dropped on the side of the bed, with her hand- 
kerchief over her mouth to stifle the sound of her 
breathing. 

The knocks became louder, there was a burst of 
laughter, and the painter had to cry: “Come in.” 

He felt more uncomfortable still when he saw Jory, 
who gallantly ushered in Irma Becot. For the last 
fortnight Fagerolles had relinquished her to him, or, 
rather, he had resigned himself to the girl’s whim, 
lest he might lose her altogether. She was then fling- 
ing her youth about the Paris studios, with her blood 
in such a craze that she changed quarters every week, 
though that did not prevent her from returning to 
her abandoned idol for a still shorter period if the 
whim took her. 


136 


ciikistine’s sacrifice. 


“It is she who insisted upon seeing your studio, so 
I brought her,” explained the journalist. 

But the girl, without waiting, was already walking 
about and making remarks, with perfect freedom of 
manner. “Oh! how funny it is here. And what 
funny painting. That’s a dear, show me everything. 
I want to see everything. And where do you sleep?” 

Claude, apprehensively anxious, was afraid of her 
pushing the screen aside. He pictured Christine 
behind it, and felt distracted already at what she 
might hear. 

“You know what she has come to ask of you?” 
resumed Jory, cheerfully. “What, don’t you remem- 
ber? You promised that she should pose for some- 
thing. And she’ll pose for whatever you like, won’t 
you, dear?” 

“Of course I will. And at once if you like.” 

“The fact is,” said Claude in an embarrassed tone, 
“my picture will take up all my time till the Salon. 
I have a figure in it that gives me a deal of trouble. 
It’s impossible to perfect it with those confounded 
models.” 

She had stuck herself in front of the picture, and 
lifted her pert little nose with a knowing air. 

“That woman in the grass. Well, I say, do you 
think I could be of any use to you?” 

Jory flared up in a moment. 

“Well! that’s not a bad idea. You are looking for 
a fine girl and can’t find one.” 

Irma was already taking off her hat with one 
hand, while the other was fumbling with the hooks 
and eyes of her dress-body, in spite of the energetic 
refusals of Claude, who was struggling as if they were 
assaulting him. 

“No, no, it’s useless. Madame is too slight. She is 
not at all what I w^ant; not at all.” 


chkistine’s sacrifice. 


137 


“What does it matter?” said Irma. “You can 
always see.” 

And Jory insisted also. 

“Let her show you. You are doing her a favor. 
She does not pose generally. She has no need to do 
so, but it’s a pleasure for her to show her figure.” 

Claude succeeded at last in preventing her from 
posing. He stammered out excuses. He would be 
only too pleased later on, but just now he was afraid 
that another model would quite complete his con- 
fusion; and she merely shrugged her shoulders, look- 
ing fixedly at him with her pretty, vicious eyes, with 
an air of smiling contempt. 

Then Jory chatted about their friends. Why had 
not Claude been at Sandoz’s on the previous Thursday? 
One never saw him now. « Dubuche asserted that he 
was being kept away by an actress. There had been 
a row between Fagerolles and Mahoudeau on the sub- 
ject of evening dress and its fitness for being reproduced 
in sculpture. On the previous Sunday Gagni^re had 
returned home from a Wagner concert with a black 
eye. He, Jory, had nearly had a duel at the Cafe 
Baudequin on account of one of his last articles in 
“ The Drummer.” The fact was he was giving it hard 
to the painters with the usurped reputations. The 
campaign against the hanging committee of the Salon 
was making a devil of a row; not a shred would be 
left of these guardians of the ideal, who wanted to 
prevent nature from entering. 

Claude listened to him with impatient irritation. He 
had taken up his palette and shuffled about in front of 
his picture. The other one understood at last. 

“You want to work, we’ll leave you.” 

Irma continued to stare at the painter, with her 
vague smile, astonished at the stupidity of this simple- 
ton, who did not care for her, and seized despite her- 
self with a whim to please him. His studio was ugly. 


138 


Christine’s sacrifice. 


and lie himself wasn’t handsome; but why should he 
affect goodness? Subtle and intelligent, certain of mak- 
ing her way, with her free and easy youthful manners, 
she chaffed him for a moment, and on going off* she 
again off*ered to sit for him, emphasizing her off’er by 
a long and warm pressure of his hand. 

“Whenever you like,” were her parting words. 

They were gone at last, and Claude was obliged to 
put the screen aside, for Christine, looking very white, 
remained seated on the edge of the bed, as if she 
lacked the strength to rise. She did not say a word 
about the girl, but simply declared that she had been 
very much frightened; and she wanted to go at once — 
trembling lest there should be another knock — carry- 
ing away with her, in her startled looks, the trouble 
of many things she did not mention. 

In fact, for many a day this sphere of brutal art, 
this studio full of glaring pictures, had caused her a 
feeling of discomfort. Wounded, full of repugnance, 
she could not get used to the academic studies, to the 
crude realism of the sketches brought back from 
Provence. Having grown up in the aff’ectionate admira- 
tion of a diff'erent style of art — her mother’s fine water- 
colors, those fans of dreamy delicacy, in which lilac- 
tinted couples floated about in bluey gardens — she quite 
failed to understand Claude’s work. Even now she 
often amused herself by painting tiny girlish landscapes, 
two or three subjects repeated over and over again — 
a lake with a ruin, a water mill beating a stream, a 
chalet, and pine trees, white with snow. And she felt 
surprised that an intelligent young fellow should paint 
in such an unreasonable manner, so ugly and so untrue 
besides. For she not only thought this realism mon- 
strously ugly, but considered it as beyond every per- 
missible truth. In fact, she considered he must be mad. 

One day Claude absolutely insisted upon seeing a 
small sketch-book she had brought away from Cler- 


Christine’s sacrifice. 


139 


mont, and whicli she had spoken about. After object- 
ing for a long while, she brought it with her, flattered 
at heart and feeling very curious to know what he 
would say. He turned its leaves, smiling all the while, 
and as he did not speak, she was the first to ask: 

“You think it very bad, don’t you?” 

“Hot at all,” he replied. “It’s innocent.” 

The word hurt her, despite Claude’s indulgent tone, 
which aimed at making it amiable. 

“Well, you see I had so few lessons from mamma. 
I like painting to be well done and pleasing.” 

Thereupon he burst into frank laughter. 

^‘Confess that my painting makes you feel ill. I 
have noticed it. You purse your lips, and open your 
eyes wide with fright. Certainly it is not the style of 
painting for ladies, least of all for young girls. But 
you’ll get used to it; it’s only a question of educating 
your eyes and you’ll end by seeing that what I am 
doing is very honest and healthy.” 

Indeed, Christine gradually became used to it. But, 
at first, artistic conviction had nothing to do with the 
change, especially as Claude, with his contempt for 
female opinion, did not take the trouble to indoctrinate 
her. On the contrary, he avoided conversing about art 
with her, as if he wished to retain for himself this 
passion of his life apart from the new passion which 
was taking possession of him. Still, Christine glided 
into the habit of the thing, and became familiarized 
with it; she began to feel interested in these abomi- 
nable pictures, on noticing the important place they 
held in the artist’s existence. This was the first stage 
on the road to conversion; she felt moved in the presence 
of this rage to be up and doing, in the presence of this 
absolute consecration of one’s whole being : was it not 
very touching? Was there not something very credit- 
able in this? Then, when she beheld his joys and his 
sufferings, according to the success or the failure of the 


140 


Christine’s sacrifice. 


day’s work, she began to associate herself with his 
effbrts. She became saddened when she found him sad, 
she grew cheerful when he received her cheerfully; 
and from that moment her preoccupation was — had he 
done a lot of work? Was he satisfied with what he 
had done since they had last seen each other? At the 
end of the second month she had been gained over; 
she stationed herself before the picture to judge whether 
it was progressing; she no longer felt afraid of it. She 
still did not particularly approve of this style of paint- 
ing, but she began to repeat the artistic expressions 
she had heard him use; declared this bit to be “vig- 
orous in tone,” “well built up,” or “just in the light it 
should be.” He seemed to her so good-natured, and 
she was so fond of him, that after having found excuses 
for his daubing these horrors, she ended by discover- 
ing qualities in them in order to like them a little also. 

Nevertheless, there was one picture, the large one, 
the one intended for the Salon, to which she could 
not reconcile herself for a long while. She already 
looked without dislike at the academic studies of the 
Boutin studio and the sketches of Plassans, but she 
was still irritated by the sight of the woman lying 
in the grass. It was like a personal grudge, the 
shame of having momentarily thought that she could 
detect a likeness of herself, a silent embarrassment at 
sight of this big figure which continued to wound her 
feelings, although she now found in it less and less 
of a likeness to herself. At first she had protested 
by averting her eyes. Now she remained for several 
minutes looking fixedly at it, in mute contemplation. 
How was it that the likeness had disappeared like 
that? In fact, the more vigorously that Claude strug- 
gled on, never satisfied, touching up the same bit a 
hundred times, the more the likeness to herself grad- 
ually faded away. And, without being able to account 
for it, without daring to admit as much to herself, 


Christine’s sacrifice. 


141 


she, whose modesty had revolted the first day, now 
felt a growing sorrow at noticing that nothing of her- 
self remained. 

Indeed, she felt as if their friendship suffered from 
this obliteration; she felt herself further away from him 
at each trait that vanished. Didn’t he care for her that 
he thus allowed her to be effaced from his work? 
And who was this new woman, this unknown indis- 
tinct face that penetrated from beneath hers? 

Claude, in despair at having spoilt the figure’s head, 
did not know exactly how to ask her for a few hour’s 
sitting. She would have merely had to sit down; he 
would have only taken some hints. But he had pre- 
viously seen her so pained that he felt afraid of irri- 
tating her again. And moreover, after promising 
himself to ask her in a gay, off-hand way, he had 
been at a loss for words, feeling all at once ashamed, 
as if something unbecoming had been in question. 

One afternoon he quite upset her by one of those 
bursts of anger which he found it impossible to con- 
trol, even in her presence. Everything had gone wrong 
that week; he talked of scraping his canvas again, 
and he paced up and down, beside himself, and kick- 
ing the furniture about. Then, all of a sudden, he 
caught her by the shoulders and made her sit down 
on the couch. 

“I beg of you, do me this favor, or it’ll kill me, I 
swear.” 

Dismayed, she did not understand him. 

“What — what is it you want?” 

Then when she saw him take up his brushes, she 
added, without heeding what she said: “Ah, yes! 
your work. Why did not you ask me before?” 

And of her own accord she threw herself back on 
a cushion and slid her arm under her neck. But 
surprise and confusion at having yielded so quickly 
made her grave, for she did not know that she was 


142 


Christine’s sacrifice. 


prepared for this kind of thing, indeed, she could have 
sworn that she would never serve him as a model 
again. 

He, quite delighted, exclaimed: “Eeally, you con- 
sent! Dash it all! What a blooming fine woman I’ll 
turn out with you!” 

Again, speaking without reflection, she let these 
words escape her: “Oh! only the head!” 

Whereupon, with the haste of a man who fears he 
has gone too far, he stammered: “Of course! only 
the head!” 

A mutual feeling of embarrassment kept them both 
silent. He began to paint, while she, looking upward 
and keeping still, felt confused at having uttered such 
a phrase. Her compliance already filled her with 
remorse, as if she were lending herself to something 
wrong by letting him impart her lineaments to this 
feminine monstrosity refulgent under the sun. 

In two sittings, Claude worked in the head all right. 
He exulted with delight, and exclaimed that it was 
the best bit of painting he had ever done; and he 
was right, never had he thrown such a play of real 
light over such a lifelike face. Happy at seeing him 
so pleased, Christine also became gay, going as far as 
to express approval of her head, which was still not 
very like, but which had a wonderful expression. 
They stood a long while before the picture, blinking 
at it, and drawing back as far as the wall. 

“And now,” he said at last, “I’ll finish her off with 
a model. Ah! the hussy, so I’ve got her at last.” 

In a burst of childish glee, he took the young girl 
round the waist, and they performed “a triumphant 
war dance,” as he called it. She laughed very heartily, 
fond of romping as she was, and no longer feeling 
aught of her trouble, scruples and discomfort. 

But the very next week Claude became gloomy 
again. He had chosen Zoe Pi(idefer to pose for the 


Christine’s sacrifice. 


143 


body, and sbe did not supply what he wanted; the 
delicate head, so he said, didn’t set well on her shoul- 
ders. He, nevertheless, persisted, scratched out, began 
anew, and worked so hard that he lived in a constant 
state of fever. Towards the middle of January, seized 
with despair, he abandoned his picture and turned it 
against the wall, swearing that he would not finish it. 
Then, a fortnight later, he began to work at it again 
with another model, tall Judith, which obliged him 
to change the whole tone of it. Matters became still 
worse; he sent for Zoe again; became altogether at 
sea, and quite ill with uncertainty and anguish. And 
the pity of it was that this central figure alone wor- 
ried him, for the rest of the painting — the trees of 
the background, the two little Avornen, the gentleman 
in the velvet coat, finished and vigorous — fully satis- 
fied him. February was drawing to a close; he had 
only a few days left to send his picture to the Salon; 
it was quite a disaster. 

One evening, in Christine’s presence, he began to 
swear, and launched forth this, cry of anger: “After 
all, by the thunder of heaven, can one stick one 
woman’s head on another’s body! I ought to chop 
my hand off.” 

From the depths of his heart a single idea now 
mounted : to obtain her consent to pose for the whole 
figure. It had slowly sprouted, first as a simple wish, 
quickly discarded as absurd; then had come a silent, 
constantly-renewed debate with himself; and at last 
the desire, keen and definite, under the lash of necessity. 
It was she whom he wanted; she alone would realize 
his dream, and he beheld her again in her youthful 
freshness, beaming, indispensable to him. If he could 
not get her to pose, he might as well give up his 
picture, for no one else would satisfy him. While he 
remained seated for hours, distracted in front of this 
unfinished picture, so utterly powerless that he no 


144 


Christine’s sacrifice. 


longer knew wliere to give a stroke of the brush, he 
formed heroic resolutions. The moment she came in 
he would throw himself at her feet; he would tell her 
his troubles in such touching words that she would, 
perhaps, yield. But when he beheld her, with her 
frank laughter of good fellowship, in her chaste dress 
which revealed nothing of her figure, he lost all cour- 
age, he averted his eyes lest she might surprise him 
trying to detect the supple curve of her torso under 
her dress-body. Such a request would be madness. 
One could not expect such a service from a friend; 
he would never have the audacity to ask. 

Nevertheless, one evening as he was getting ready 
to accompany her, and as she was putting on her bon- 
net, her arms uplifted, they remained for a moment 
looking into each other’s eyes, he quivering before her, 
she suddenly becoming so grave, so pale, that he felt 
himself detected. Twice afterwards he again read in 
her looks that she was aware of his all-absorbing 
thought. In fact, since he dreamt about it, she had 
begun to do the same, in spite of herself, her atten- 
tion roused by his involuntary allusions. They scarcely 
aftected her at first though she was obliged at last 
to notice them; still, she did not think it necessary to 
be on the defensive, for the question seemed to her to 
be beyond the range of possibility, to be one of those 
unavowable ideas which people do not even speak of. 
The fear that he would dare to ask her did not even 
come to her. It was simple madness. Never, never! 

Days went by, and between them the fixed idea 
grew. The moment they were together they could 
not help thinking of it. Not a word was broached 
about it, but their very silence was full of it; they 
no longer made a movement, no longer exchanged "a 
smile without stumbling upon this thought, impossi- 
ble to shape into words, but of which their minds 
were brimful. Soon there was nothing left but that 


CHRISTINE’S SACRIFICE. 


145 


in tlieir fraternal companionsliip. And what they 
had so far avoided, the trouble of their intimacy, the 
awakening of the man and the woman in their frank 
comradeship, burst forth at last under this constant 
evocation that haunted them both. Little by little 
they became sensible of a secret fever of which they 
had hitherto been ignorant. Heat rose to their cheeks; 
they colored merely because their hands brushed 
against each other. Henceforth a never-ceasing excite- 
ment seemed to be lashing their blood ; and amid 
this seizure of their whole being, the anguish of what 
they thus kept unspoken, but which they could not 
hide from each otlier, became such as to almost stifle 
them, their chests swelling with big sighs. 

Towards the middle of March, Christine, at one of 
her visits, found Claude seated before his picture 
crushed with sorrow. He had not even heard her 
come in. He remained motionless, his vacant and hag- 
gard eyes staring at his unfinished work. In another 
three days the delay for sending in exhibits for the 
Salon would expire. 

“Well?” she inquired gently, after standing a long 
time behind him, grief- stricken at seeing him in despair. 

He started and turned round. 

“Well, it’s all up. I shan’t exhibit anything this 
year! Ahl I who counted so much upon this Salon!” 

Both relapsed into their despondency — a despon- 
dency agitated by vast, confused thoughts. Then she 
resumed, thinking aloud as it were: 

“There would still be time.” 

“Time? Oh! no, indeed. It would want a miracle. 
Where am I to find a model so late in the day? Do 
you know, since this morning I have been worrying, and 
for a moment I thought I had hit upon an idea. Yes, 
it would be to go and fetch that girl, that Irma who 
came while you were here. I know well enough that 
she is small and plump, and that I should, perhaps, 


146 


CHRISTINE’S SACRIFICE. 


Lave to change every thing once more; but she’s 
young, and there may be a possibility of making her 
do. Decidedly, I’ll try her — ” 

He stopped short. The burning eyes with which 
he gazed at her clearly said: “Ah! there’s you! ah! 
it would be the awaited miracle, the certain triumph, 
if you made this supreme sacrifice for me. I beseech 
you, I ask you devoutly, as a friend, the dearest, the 
most beauteous, the most pure.” 

She, erect, looking very pale, seemed to hear each 
word; and his ardently beseeching eyes exercised power 
over her. Without hastening, she took off her bonnet 
and cloak ; then, simply, she continued in the same calm 
manner to prepare completely for the pose. She had 
not uttered a word ; she seemed to be elsewhere, as of 
an evening, when, in her room and lost in dreams, she 
mechanically prepared to retire without paying the 
least attention. Why let a rival give her body when 
she herself had already given her face? She wished 
to be there entirely, at home in her affection, under- 
standing at last the jealous disquietude this monster 
had caused her for so long a while. And still silent, 
she stretched herself on the couch, took up the pose, 
one arm under her head, her eyes closed. 

Startled, motionless with delight, he watched her. 
At last he had found it again — the sudden vision so 
often evoked, it had started into life once more. Slie 
looked in part a child, still lank, but so lithe, so fresh 
in her youthfulness, and again he wondered. But he 
did not speak a word; he began to paint in the deep, 
solemn silence that had fallen upon them. For two 
long hours he stood to his work with such manly 
energy that he finished right off' a superb I'oughing 
out of the whole figure. Never had woman’s fleslx 
intoxicated him like this, so vividly did it seem to 
beam in the light. His heart beat as if in the presence 
of some saintly figure. He did not approach, but 


cheistine’s sacrifice. Ii7 

remained wondering at the transfiguration of the face’ 
the somewhat massive sensual jaws of which seemed 
to have faded away beneath the gentle peacefulness of 
the brow and cheeks. During the two hours she did 
not stir, she did not speak, but made the sacrifice 
without a tremor, without any apparent embarrass- 
ment. Both felt, however, that if they said but one 
word a great shame would fall upon them. However, 
from time to time she opened her clear eyes, fixed 
them on some vague, distant point, remained thus for 
a moment, without his being able to read her 
thoughts in them, then closed them again, and relapsed 
into the lifelessness of fine marble, with the mys- 
terious fixed smile required by the pose. 

With a gesture Claude apprised her that he had 
finished, and ‘his awkwardness coming back to him, 
he upset a chair in order to turn his back the 
quicker, while Christine, very red, rose from the 
couch. She dressed herself quickly, suddenly shiver- 
ing, and in such a state of emotion that she fastened 
her dress all awry, pulling down her sleeves, and 
pulling up her collar, so as not to show the least 
strip of bare skin. And she was already dressed, 
mu filed up ir^ her cloak, while he, with his face still 
turned towards the wall, could not make up his mind 
to risk a glance. However, he drew near her at last; 
they gazed at each other for a moment or so, hesita- 
ting, overcome by an emotion which still prevented 
them from speaking. Was it sadness, then, uncon- 
scious, unnameable sadness? For their eyes grew 
swollen with tears, as if they had just spoilt their 
lives and dived to the depths of human misery. 
Then, softened and grieved, unable to think of any- 
thing, even of a word of thanks, he kissed her on 
the brow. 


143 


THE SALON OF THE REJECTED. 


CHAPTEK y . 

THE SALON OF THE REJECTED. 

O N tlie 15tli of May, a Friday, Claude, who had 
returned at three o’clock in the morning from 
Saiidoz’s, was still asleep at nine, when Madame 
Joseph brought him up a large bouquet of white 
lilac which a commissionaire had just left down-stairs. 
He understood at once. Christine had wished to be 
beforehand in celebrating the success of ‘his painting. 
For this was a great day for him, the opening day 
of the “Salon of the Kejected,” which was first insti- 
tuted that year, and where his picture — refused by 
the hanging committee of the official Salon — was to 
be exhibited. 

This delicate attention on Christine’s part, this 
fresh and fragrant lilac which roused him, affected 
him greatly, as if presaging a happy day. Still in his 
nightshirt, with his feet bare, he placed the flowers in 
his water-jug on the table. Tlien, with his eyes still 
swollen with sleep, almost bewildered, he dressed, 
scolding himself for having slept so long. The night 
before he had promised Dubuche and Sandoz to call 
for them at the latter’s at eight o’clock, so that they 
might all three go together to the Palais de I’lii- 
dustrie, where they would find the rest of the band. 
And he was already an hour behind time. 

And, as luck would have it, he could not lay his 
hands upon anything in his studio, turned topsy- 
turvy since the dispatch of the big picture. For 
more than five minutes he hunted on his knees for 


THE SALON OF THE KEJECTED. 


149 


liis shoes, among a lot of old chases. Particles of 
gold’ leaf flew about, for, not knowing where to 
get the money for a proper frame, he had four strips 
of board fitted together by a joiner of the neigh- 
borhood, and he had gilded them himself, with the assis- 
tance of his friend Christine, who, by-the-way, had 
proved a very unskilful gilder. At last, dressed, 
shod, his soft felt hat lisprangled with yellow 
sparks, he was going oft* when a superstitious thought 
brought him back to the nosegay, which had remained 
alone in the middle of the table. If he did not kiss 
the lilac he was sure to suffer an affront. So he 
kissed it and was perfumed by its strong springtide 
aroma. 

Under the archway, he gave his key as usual to 
the doorkeeper. “Madame Joseph, I shall not be 
home all day.” 

In less than twenty minutes he was in the Kue 
d’Enfer, at Sandoz’s. But the latter, whom he feared 
to have kept waiting, was equally late in consequence 
of a sudden indisposition of his mother. It was 
nothing. She had merely passed a bad night, but 
it had quite upset him with anxiety. Reassured by 
now, Sandoz told Claude that Dubuche had written 
not to wait for him, and giving an appointment at 
the Palais. They started, and as it was nigh upon 
eleven, they decided to breakfast in a deserted little 
cremerie in the Rue St. Honore, very leisurely,, seized 
with laziness amid their ardent desire to see, and 
deriving a kind of sweet and tender sadness from 
lingering awhile among the recollections of their 
youth. 

One o’clock was striking when they crossed the 
Champs Elysdes. It was a lovely day, with a limpid 
sky, to which the breeze, still somewhat chilly, 
seemed to impart a brighter azure. Beneath the sun, 
of th^. tint of ripe corn,, the rows of chestnut trees 


150 


THE SALON OF THE KEJECTED. 


showed their r\ew foil age of a delicate green, and 
freshly varnished, as it were; the basins with their 
leaping sheafs of water, the well-kept lawns, the 
prolonged vistas of the pathways, and the extent of 
the open spaces, all lent an air of luxurious gran- 
deur to the far- stretching scene. A few carriages, 
very few at this early hour, were ascending the 
avenue, while a stream of people, bewildered and 
bustling, like a swarm of ants, disappeared under the 
vast archway of the Palais cle I’lndustrie. 

When they were inside, Claude felt a slight shiver 
in the gigantic vestibule, as cold as a cellar, and the 
damp pavement of which resounded beneath one’s 
feet, like the flagstones of a church. He glanced 
right and left at the two monumental staircases, and 
asked contemptuously: “I say, are we going through 
their dirty Salon?” 

“Oh! no, dash it!” answered Sandoz. “Let’s cut 
through the garden. Over there, there’s the western 
staircase that leads to ‘the Kejected.’” 

And they passed disdainfully between the two little 
tables of the catalogue vendors. Through the open- 
ing of the vast red velvet curtains, the garden, roofed 
in with glass, appeared beyond the shady porch. At 
that time of day it was almost deserted; there were 
only some people at the bufiet under the clock, the 
throng of people lunching. The crowd was in the 
galleries on the first floor, and the white statues alone 
edged the yellow-sanded pathways which crudely 
intersected the green lawns. There was a whole popu- 
lation of motionless marble, transfixed in some attitude 
or other; an endless row of heads, legs, arms, pell-mell, 
bathed in the light falling from the glazed roof on 
high. Looking southwards, holland blinds barred half 
of the nave, amber in the sun -light and speckled at 
both ends by the dazzling blue and crimson of the 
stained glass windows. Just a few visitors, wearied 


THE SALON OF THE REJECTED. 


151 


already, occupied the brand new cbairs and seats, 
shiny with fresh paint; while the flights of sparrows, 
which had built their nests above, among the iron 
girders, swooped down, twittering as they pursued 
each other, and quite at home, raldng up the sand. 

Claude and Sandoz pretended to walk along very 
quickly, without giving a glance around them. A 
stift* classical bronze statue, the Minerva of a member 
of the Institute, had exasperated them at the very 
door. But as they hastened along past a seemingly 
endless line of busts, they recognized Bongrand, all 
alone, going slowly round a recumbent figure, colossal 
and overflowing, which had been placed in the middle 
of the path. His hands behind his back, quite 
absorbed, he bent his creased and wrinkled face every 
now and then over the plaster. 

“Hallo, it’s you?” he said, as they held out their 
hands to him “I was just looking at the figure of 
our friend Malioudeau, which they at least had the 
intelligence to admit, and to put in a good position.” 
Then breaking off: “Have you been up-stairs?” he 
asked. 

“No, we have just come in,” said Claude. 

Then Bongrand began to talk warmly about the 
Salon of the Rejected. He, who belonged to the 
Institute, but who lived apart from his colleagues, 
made very merry over the adventure; the everlasting 
discontent of painters; the campaign carried on by 
petty papers like “The Drummer;” the protestations, 
the constant complaints that had at last disturbed the 
Emperor and the artistic coup d’etat carried out by 
this silent dreamer, for the measure was solely owing 
to him. Then the great painter alluded to all the 
scare, the hubbub, in consequence of this paving-stone 
flung into a frog’s pond. 

“No,” he continued, “you have no idea of the indig- 
nant protests among the members of the hanging' com- 


152 


THE SALON OF THE REJECTED. 


mittee. And remember I’m distrusted ; they generally 
keep quiet when I’m there. But they are all enraged 
with these horrible realists. It was to them that the 
doors of the temple were systematically closed; it is 
on account of them that the Emperor has allowed 
the public to revise the suit, and finally it is they 
who triumph. Ah! I hear some nice things; I 
wouldn’t give a high price for your skins, youngsters.” 

He laughed his big, joyous laughter, extending his 
arms as if to embrace all the youth that he divined 
rising from the soil. 

“Your disciples are growing,” said Claude, simply. 

With a wave of his hand, Bongrand, becoming 
embarrassed, silenced him. He himself had not sent 
anything for exhibition, and the prodigious mass of 
work amidst which he found himself — these pictures, 
these statues, these proofs of creative efforts — filled him 
with regret. It was not jealousy, for there lived not 
a more upright and better soul; but a kind of self- 
examination, a gnawing fear of impotence, an unavowed 
dread that haunted him. 

“And at ‘the Kejected?’” asked Sandoz; “how goes 
it there?” 

“Superb; you’ll see.” Then turning towards Claude, 
keeping both his hands in his own: “You, my good 
fellow, you are a trump! Listen! they say I am clever; 
well, I’d give ten years of my life to have painted that 
big woman of yours!” 

Praise like that, coming from such lips, moved the 
young painter to tears. Victory had come at last, 
then? He failed to find a word of thanks, and 
abruptly turned the conversation, wishing to hide his 
emotion. 

“That good fellow Mahoudeau!” he said, “why, his 
figure’s capital! He has a deuced fine temperament, 
hasn’t he?” 


THE SALON OF THE KEJECTED. 


153 


Sandoz and Claude had begun to walk round the 
plaster figure. Bongrand replied with a smile: 

“Yes, yes, there’s too much development. But just 
look at the articulations, they are delicate and really 
pretty. Come, good-bye, I must leave you. I’m going 
to sit down awhile. My legs are bending under me.” 

Claude had raised his head to listen. A tremendous 
noise that had not struck him at first careered through 
the air with an incessant crash; it was like the din 
of the tempest, beating against the cliff, the rumbling 
of an untiring assault, dashing forward from endless 
space. 

“Hallo, what’s that?” he muttered. 

“That,” said Bongrand, as he walked away, “that’s 
the crowd up-stairs in the galleries.” 

And the two young fellows, having crossed the gar- 
den, went up to the “Salon of the Eejected.” 

It had been installed in first-rate style. The officially- 
received pictures were not lodged more sumptuously: 
lofty hangings of old tapestry at the doors; “the line” 
set off with green baize; seats of crimson velvet; white 
linen screens under the large skylights of the roof ; 
and all along the suite of galleries the first impression 
was the same — the same gilt frames, the same colors 
on the canvas. But there was a special kind of cheer- 
fulness, a sparkling of youth which one did not alto- 
gether realize at first. The crowd, already compact, 
increased every minute, for the official Salon was being 
deserted. People came, stung by curiosity, impelled 
by a desire to judge the judges, and, above all, amused 
at the very threshold by the certainty that they were 
going to see some very diverting things. It was very 
hot; a fine dust arose from the flooring; and certainly, 
towards four o’clock, one would stifle there. 

“Hang it!” said Sandoz, trying to elbow his way, 
“it will be no easy job to manoeuvre about in there 
and find your picture.” 


154 


THE SALON OF THE REJECTED. 


ITe was eager to get to it, in a burst of fraternal 
fevorislmess. On that day he only lived for the work 
and glory of his old chum. 

“Don’t worry!” exclaimed Claude; “we shall get to 
it all right. My picture won’t fly awa3L” 

And he affected not to be in a hurry, in spite of 
the almost irresistible desire he felt to run. He raised 
his head and looked around him; and soon, amidst the 
loud voices of the crowd that had bewildered him, he 
distinguished some slight, restrained laughter, which was 
almost drowned by the tramp of feet and the sound 
of conversation. Before certain pictures the public 
stood joking. This made him feel uneasy, for he was 
as sensitive and as credulous as a woman despite his 
revolutionary brutality, and always looked forward to 
martyrdom, ever grieved and ever stupefied at being 
always repulsed and railed at. 

“They seem gay here!” he muttered. 

“Well, there’s good reason,” remarked Sandoz. “Just 
look at those extravagant jades!” 

At the same moment, while still -lingering in the first 
gallery, Fagerolles ran up against them without seeing 
them. He started, being no doubt annoyed at the meet- 
ing. However, he recovered his composure immedi- 
ately, and was very amiable. 

“Hallo! I was just thinking of you. I have been 
here for the last hour.” 

“Where have they shoved Claude’s picture?” asked 
Sandoz. 

Fagerolles, who had just remained for twenty min- 
utes in front of this picture, studying it and studying 
the impression it produced on the public, answered 
without wincing: “I don’t know; I haven’t been able 
to find it. We’ll look for it together if you like.” 

And he joined them. Terrible wag as he was, he 
no longer affected low-bred manners to the same degree; 
lie already began to dress well, and although with his 


THE SALON OF THE REJECTED. 


155 


mocking nature still disposed to snap at everybody as 
of old, he pinched his lips into the serious expression 
of a fellow who Avants to make his way in the Avorld. 
He added with an air of conviction: “It’s I who regret 
not having sent anything this year! I should be here 
with all of you, and have my share of success. And 
there are some astonishing things, my boys! These 
horses, for instance!” 

He pointed to the huge canvas in front of them, 
before which the crowd was gathering and laughing. 
It was, so people said, the work of an erstwhile veter- 
inary surgeon. A number of horses, life-size, in a 
meadow, fantastic horses, blue, violet and pink, and 
whose astonishing anatomy pierced their sides. 

“I say, supposing you didn’t humbug us,” said 
Claude, suspiciously. 

But Fagerolles pretended to be enthusiastic. “What 
do you mean? It’s full of talent, that picture is. 
The fellow who painted it understands the horse 
devilish well. Ho doubt he paints like a brute. But 
what’s the odds, if he’s original and contributes a 
document?” 

Fagerolles’ delicate girlish face remained ‘perfectly 
grave, and it was impossible to know whether he was 
joking. There was but the slightest yellow twinkle 
of spiteful ness in the depths of his gray eyes. And 
he finished with a spiteful allusion, the drift of which 
was patent to himself alone as yet: “Ah, well! If you 
let yourself be influenced by the fools who laugh, 
you’ll have enough to do by-and-bye.” 

The three comrades, who had begun walking again, 
only advanced with infinite trouble amid the surging 
shoulders. On entering the second gallery they gave 
a glance around the walls, but the picture they were 
seeking was not there. What they saw instead Avas 
Irma Becot on the arm of Gagni^re, both crushed 
r^l^nst a hand-rail, he busy examining a small canvas, 


156 


THE SALON OF THE REJECTED. 


while she, delighted at being hustled about, raised her 
pink nose and laughed at the crowd. 

“ Hallo ! ” said Sandoz, surprised, “ so she’s with Gag- 
ni^re now? ” 

“Oh, merely a passing whim I” exclaimed Fagerolles, 
quietly. “One of the best things you ever heard. 
You know that she has just had a very swell apart- 
ment furnished for her. Yes, by that young idiot of 
a marquis, whom the papers talk about — you remem- 
ber? She’s a girl who’ll make her way; I’ve always 
said so! But they may put her in bedsteads with 
crests carved on them as long as they like; siie has 
a craze to sleep on truckle couches. There are times 
when she prefers the garret, come what may. And 
that’s why, last Sunday night, giving everything else 
the go-by, she dropped into the Cafe Baudequin at 
one o’clock in the morning. We had just gone off, 
and there was only Gagni^re left dozing over his beer, 
so she went off* with Gagni^re.” 

Irma had now seen them, and was making affec- 
tionate gestures from afar. They could but go to 
her. When Gagniere turned round, with his light 
hair and little, beardless face, looking more grotesque 
than ever, he did not show the least surprise at find- 
ing them at his back. * 

“It’s wonderful!” he muttered. 

“What’s wonderful?” asked Fagerolles. 

“This little masterpiece. And withal honest and 
naif and full of conviction.”- 

He pointed to a tiny canvas before which he had 
stood absorbed, an absolutely childish picture, such as 
an urchin of four might have painted: a little cottage 
at the edge of a little road, with a little tree beside 
it, the whole out of draiving, and girt round with 
black lines, even to the corkscrew imitation of smoke 
issuing from the roof. 


THE SALON OF THE REJECTED. 


157 


Claude gave a nervous gesture, wliile Fagerolles 
repeated phlegm ati cal ly : 

“Very delicate, very delicate. But your picture, 
Gagni5re, where is it?” 

“My picture, it is there.” 

In fact, the picture he had sent precisely happened 
to be near the little masterpiece. It was a landscape 
of a pearly gray, a bit of the Seine banks, painted 
carefully, pretty in tone, though somewhat heavy, and 
perfectly ponderated without any revolutionary rough- 
ness. 

“ To think that they were idiotic enough to refuse 
this,” said Claude, who had approached with an air of 
interest. “But why, I ask you, why?” 

“Because it’s realistic,” said Fagerolles, in so sharp 
a voice that one could not tell whether he was 
gibing at the jury or at the picture. 

Meanwhile, Irma, of whom no one took any notice, 
was looking fixedly at Claude, with the unconscious 
smile which the savage’ loutishness of this big fellow 
brought to her lips. To think that he had not even 
tried to see ' her again. She found him so different 
from the last time she had seen him, so funny, not 
looking at all to advantage with his hair standing on 
end, and his face wan and sallow, as if he had had 
a severe fever. And pained that he did not seem to 
notice her, she wanted to draw his attention, and 
touched his arm with a familiar gesture. 

“I say, isn’t that one of your friends over there, 
looking for you?” 

It was Dubuche, whom she knew from having seen 
him on one occasion at the Cafe Baudequin. He was, 
with difficulty, elbowing his way through the crowd, 
his eyes staring vaguely at the sea of heads. But all 
at once, when Claude was trying to make himself 
seen by gesticulating, the other turned his back to 
bow very low to a party of three — the father short 


158 


THE SALON OF THE REJECTED. 


and fat, witli a sanguine face; the mother very thin, 
the color of wax, and devoured by anaemia ; the daughter 
so physically backward at eighteen that she retained 
the lank rnacilency of childhood. 

“All right!” muttered the painter. “There he’s 
caught! What ugly acquaintances the brute has! 
Where can he have fished up such horrors?” 

Gagni^re quietly said that he knew the strangers 
by sight. M. Margaillan was a great masonry con- 
tractor, already a millionaire five or six times over, 
who was making his fortune out of the great public 
works of Paris, running up whole boulevards on his own 
account. No doubt Dubuche had become acquainted 
with him through one of the architects he worked 
for. 

But Sandoz, compassionating the scragginess of the 
young girl, whom he kept watching, judged her in 
one sentence : 

“Ah! the poor little flayed kitten. One feels sorry 
for her.” 

“Let them alone!” exclaimed Claude, ferociously. 
“They have all the crimes of the middle classes 
stamped on their faces! It serves them right! But 
hallo! our runaway friend is making off* with them. 
What grovellers architects are! Good riddance. lie’ll 
have to look for us when he wants, us!” 

Dubuche, who had not seen his friends, had just 
off'ered his arm to the mother, and was going off* 
explaining the pictures, his gestures typical of exag- 
gerated politeness. 

“Well, let’s proceed then,” said Fagerolles; and, 
addressing Gagni^re, he asked: “Do you know where 
they have stowed Claude’s picture?” 

“I? No, I was looking for it — I am going with 
you.” 

He accompanied them, forgetting Irma B^cot against 
the “line.” It was she who had wanted to visit the 


THE SALON OF THE REJECTED. 


159 


Salon on his arm, and he was so little used to prom- 
enading a woman that he constantly lost her on the 
way, and was stupefied to find her again beside him, 
no longer knowing how or why they were thus together. 
She ran after them, and took his arm again to follow 
Claude, who was already passing into another gallery 
with Fagerolles and Sandoz. 

Tlien the five roamed about in Indian file, their 
noses in the air, separated by a sudden crush, reunited 
by another one, and carried along by the stream. An 
abomination of Chaiiie’s, a “Christ Pardoning the 
Woman taken in Adultery,’' made them pause; it 
was a group of dry figures that looked like wood, of 
a bony build lending violet shades to the skin, and 
seemingly painted with mud. But close by they 
admired a very fine study of -a Avoman, seen from 
behind, with her head turned round. The whole show 
was a mixture of- the best and the worst, all styles 
were mingled together, the drivellers of the historical 
school elbowing the young lunatics of realism, the 
simpletons lumped together with those who bragged 
about their originality; a dead Jezabel, that seemed 
to have rotted away in the cellars of the School of 
Arts, exhibited near a lady in white, a very curious 
conception of a future great artist; a huge shepherd 
looking at the sea, a weak production facing a little 
painting of some Spaniards playing at rackets, a dash 
of light of splendid intensity. Nothing execrable was 
wanting, neither military scenes with little leaden sol- 
diers, nor wan antiquity, nor the middle ages, smeared 
as it were with bitumen. But from amidst this inco- 
herent ensemble, especially from the landscapes, all 
of which were painted in a sincere, correct key, and 
also from the portraits, mostly very interesting as 
regards workmanship, there came a good fresh odor 
of youth, bravery and passion. If there were fewer 
bad pictures in the official Salon, the average there 


160 


THE SALON OF THE REJECTED. 


was assuredly more commonplace and mediocre. Here 
there was the smell of battle, of cheerful battle, given 
jauntily at daybreak, when the bugle sounds, and when 
one marches to meet the enemy with the certainty 
of beating him before sunset. 

Claude, whose spirits had revived amidst this mar- 
tial odor, grew animated and pugnacious as he listened 
to the laughter of the public, and looked defiant as 
if he had heard bullets whizzing past him. Suffi- 
ciently discreet at the entrance of the galleries, this 
laughter became more boisterous, more unrestrained, 
as they advanced. In the third room the women no 
longer concealed it behind their handkerchiefs, the 
men held their sides the better to ease themselves. 
It was the contagious hilarity of people come to 
amuse themselves, growing gradually excited, bursting 
out at a trifle, diverted as much by the good things 
as by the bad. Folks laughed less before Chaine’s 
Christ than before the woman whose starting from the 
canvas, as it were, seemed very comical indeed. The 
“Lady in White” also stupefied people and drew them 
together; folks nudged each other and went into 
hysterics almost; there was alwa^^s a grinning group 
in front of it. And each canvas thus had its especial 
success; people hailed each other from a distance to 
point out something funny; witticisms constantly flew 
from mouth to mouth; to such a degree, indeed, that 
as Claude entered the fourth gallery, lashed into fury 
by the tempest of laughter that was raging there as 
well, he all but slapped the face of an old dame 
whose chuckles exasperated him. 

‘ What idiots!” he said, turning towards his friends. 
“One feels inclined to throw a lot of masterpieces at 
tlieir heads.” 

Sandoz had become fiery also, and Fagerolles con- 
tinued to praise aloud the most dreadful daubs, which 
only tended to increase the laughter, while Gagni^re, 


THE SALON OF THE REJECTED. 


161 


at sea amid tlie noise, dragged along the delighted 
Irma, whose skirts somehow wound round all the men. 

But all of a sudden Jory stood before them. His 
long pink nose, his fair, handsome face, absolutely 
beamed. He violently cut his way through the crowd, 
gesticulated, and exulted, as if over a personal victory. 
The moment he perceived Claude, he shouted: 

“Here you are at last! I have been looking for 
you this hour! A success, old fellow, oh! a success!” 

“Which success?” 

“Why, the success of your picture! Come, I must 
show it you. You’ll see, it’s stunning!” 

Claude grew pale. A great joy choked him, while 
he pretended to receive the news with composure. 
Bongrand’s words came back to him. He began to 
believe that he possessed genius. 

“Hallo, how are you?” continued Jory, shaking 
hands with ‘the others. 

And, without more ado, he, Fagerolles and Gagni^re 
surrounded Irma, who smiled on them in a good- 
natured way. 

“Perhaps you’ll tell us where the picture is?” said 
Sandoz, impatiently. “Take us to it.” 

Jory assumed the lead, followed by the band. They 
had to fight their way into the last gallery. But 
Claude, who brought up the rear, still heard the 
laughter that rose on the air, a swelling clamor, the 
roll of the tide near its full. And as he finally entered 
the room, he beheld a vast, swarming, closely-packed 
crowd eagerly pressing in front of his picture. All 
the laughter arose, spread and ended there. And it 
was his picture that was being laughed at! 

“Eh!” repeated Jory, triumphantly, “there’s a suc- 
cess for you!” 

Gagni^re, intimidated, as ashamed as if he himself 
had feen slapped, muttered: 

10 


162 


THE SALON OF THE REJECTED. 


“Too much of a success! I should prefer somethirg 
different!” 

“What a fool you are!” replied Jory, in a burst 
of exalted conviction. “That’s what I call success! 
Does it matter a curse if they laugh? We have made 
our mark; to-morrow every paper will talk about 
us!” 

“The idiots!” was all that Sandoz could gasp, 
choking with grief. 

Fagerolles, disinterested and dignified like a faniily 
friend following a funeral procession, said nothing. 
And Irma alone remained gay, thinking it all very- 
funny. Then, with a caressing gesture, she leant against 
the shoulder of the derided painter, and whispered 
softly in his ear: 

“Don’t fret, my boy. It’s all humbug, be merry all 
the same.” 

But Claude did not stir. An icy chill had come 
over him. For a moment his heart had almost ceased 
to beat, so cruel had been the disappointment. And 
with his eyes enlarged, attracted and fixed by a resist- 
less force, he looked at his picture. He was sur- 
prised, and scarcely recognized it; it certainly was 
not the same work it had seemed in his studio. It 
had grown yellow beneath the livid light of the linen 
screens; it seemed also to have become smaller, coar- 
ser and more labored at the same time; and wliether 
it was the effect of the light in which it now hung, 
or the contrast of the works beside it, at all events 
he now saw at the first glance all its defects, after 
having remained blind, as it were, for months before 
it. With a few strokes of the brush he altered the 
whole of it, deepened the distances, sat a badly drawn 
limb right, and changed the value of a tone. Decidedly, 
the gentleman in the velveteen jacket was not worth 
anything at all, he was altogether impasted and badly 
seated; the only really good bit of work about him 


THE SALON OF THE REJECTED. 


163 


was Ills hand. In the background the two little 
wrestlers — the fair and the dark one — had remained 
too sketchy, and lacked substance; they were amu- 
sing -only to an artist’s eye. But he was pleased with 
the trees, with the sunny glade ; and the woman — 
the woman lying on the grass appeared to him 
superior to his own powers, as if some one else had 
painted her, and as if he had never yet beheld her 
in this resplendency of life. 

lie turned to Sandoz, and said simply: 

“They are right to laugh; it’s incomplete! Never 
mind, the woman is all right! Bongrand was not 
hoaxing me.” 

His friend wished to take him away, but he became 
obstinate, and drew closer instead. Now that he had 
judged his work, he listened and looked at tlie crowd. 
The explosion continued — culminated in an ascending 
scale of mad laughter. Already on the threshold he 
saw the jaws of the visitors part, their eyes grow small, 
their entire faces expand; and one heard the tem- 
pestuous puffing of the fat men, the rusty grating of 
the lean ones, dominated by the shrill, flute-like 
laughter of the women. Opposite him, against the 
hand-rails, some young fellows went into contortions, 
as if some one had been tickling them. One lady 
had flung herself on a seat, her knees close together, 
stifling and trying to regain breath with her hand- 
kerchief over her mouth. Kumors of this picture, so 
very funny, must be spreading, for there was a rush 
from the four corners of the Salon, bands arrived 
jostling each other, and bent on sharing the fun. 
“Where is it?” “Over there.” “Oh, what a joke!” 
And the witticisms fell thicker here than elsewhere. 
It was especially the subject that caused merriment; 
people fliiled to understand; it was thought insane, 
comical enough to make one ill with laughter. “You 
see the lady feels too hot, while the gentleman has 


164 ' THE SALON OF THE REJECTED. 

put on his velveteen jacket for fear of catching cold.’* 
“Not at all; she is already blue; the gentleman has 
pulled her out of a pond, and he is resting at a dis- 
tance, holding his nose.” “The man isn’t at all 
polite; he might have turned the other way.” “I 
tell you it’s a young ladies’ school out for a ramble. 
Look at the two playing at leap-frog.” “Hallo! 
washing day; the flesh is blue; the trees are blue; 
he’s dipped his picture in the blueing tub!” 

Those who did not laugh flew into a rage: this 
bluey tinge, this novel rendering of light seemed an 
insult to them. Some old gentlemen shook their 
sticks. Was art to be outraged like this? One grave 
individual went away very wroth, saying to his wife 
that he did not like practical jokes. But another, a 
punctilious little man, having looked in the catalogue 
for the title of the work, in order to tell his daughter, 
and reading out aloud, “‘In the Open Air’,” there came 
a formidable renewal of the clamor, hisses and shouts 
around him, and what not. The title sped about; it 
was repeated, commented on. “In the Open Air! ah, 
yes, the open air, the woman exposed to the air, 
everything in the air, tra la la laire.’-* The aflair was 
becoming a scandal. The crowd still increased. Peo- 
ple’s faces grew congestive in the growing heat, each 
with the stupidly gaping mouth of the ignoramus 
who judges painting, and the whole of them indulg- 
ing in all the asinine ideas, all the preposterous reflec- 
tions, all the stupid, spiteful jeers that the sight of an 
original work can elicit from middle-class imbecility. 

At that moment, as a last blow, Claude beheld 
Dubuche reappear, dragging the Margaillans along. 
As soon as he came in front of the picture, the 
architect, ill at ease, taken with a cowardly shame, 
wished to quicken his ])ace, take his party further 
on, pretending he had seen neither the canvas nor 
his friends. But the contractor had already drawn 


THE SALON OF THE KEJECTED. 


165 


himself up on his short, squat legs, staring with all 
his might, and asking " aloud in his thick hoarse 
voice : 

“I say, who’s the blockhead that painted this?” 

This good-natured bluster, this cry of a million- 
aire parvenu resuming the average opinion, increased 
the merriment; and he, flattered by his success, 
tickled by the strange style of the painting, started 
off in his turn with such immoderate, sonorous 
laughter from the depths of his capacious chest, that 
he could be heard above all the others. It was the 
hallelujah, the final outburst of the great organ. 

“Take my daughter away!” whispered pale-faced 
Madame Margaillan in Dubuche’s ear. 

He sprang forward, disengaged Eegine, who had 
drooped her eyelids, from the crowd, and displayed as 
much muscular energy as if it had been a question of 
saving the poor creature from imminent death. Then 
having taken leave of the Margaillans at the door, 
with a deal of handshaking and the bows of a man of 
society, he came towards his friends, and said straight- 
way to Sandoz, Fagerolles and Gagni^re: 

“What would you have? It isn’t my fault. I 
warned him that the public would not understand. It’s 
risky; yes, you may say what you like, it’s risky.” 

“They hissed Delacroix,” broke in Sandoz, white 
with rage, and clenching his fists. “They hissed Cour- 
bet. Oh, the race of enemies, the hangman’s idiocy ! ” 

Gagniere, who now shared this artistic vindictive- 
ness,- grew angry at the recollection of his Sunday 
battles at the Pasdeloup Concerts in favor of real music. 

“And they hiss Wagner; they are the same crew. 
I recognize" them! You see that fat fellow over 
there ” 

Jory had to hold him back. The journalist would 
rather have egged on the crowd. Ile^ kept on repeat- 
inc^ that it was famous, that there was a hundred 


166 


THE SALON OF THE REJECTED. 


thousand francs’ wortli of advertisements in it. And 
Irma, left to her own devices once more, had just met 
two of her friends, young Stock Exchange men who 
were among the most persistent scoffers, but whom 
she began to indoctrinate, forcing them, as it were, into 
admiration, by rapping them on the knuckles. 

Fagerolles, however, had not opened his lips. He 
kept on examining the picture, and gave glances at 
the crowd. With his Parisian instinct and the elastic 
conscience of a skilful fellow, he at once fathomed the 
misunderstanding. He was already vaguely conscious 
of what was wanted for that style of painting to make 
the conquest of everybody, a little trickery perhaps, 
some attenuations, a different choice of subject, a milder 
way of execution. The influence that Claude had had 
over him persisted in making itself felt; he remained 
imbued with it; it had set its stamp upon him forever. 

Only he considered Claude to be an arch idiot to 
have exhibited such a thing. Wasn’t it stupid to 
believe in the intelligence of the public? What was 
the use of this woman beside this gentleman fully 
dressed? What did those two little wrestlers in the 
background mean? And yet the picture evinced the 
qualities of a master. There wasn’t another bit of 
painting like it in the Salon! And he felt a great 
contempt for this artist, so admirably endowed, who 
made all Paris roar as if he had been the worst of 
daubers. 

This contempt became so strong that he was unable 
to .hide it. In a moment of irresistible frankness he 
exclaimed : 

“ Look here, my dear fellow, it’s your own fault, you 
are too stupid.” 

Claude, turning his eyes from the crowd, looked at 
him in silence. He had not winced, only turned pale 
amidst the laughter, his lips quivering with a slight 
nervous twitching; nobody knew him, it was his work 


THE SALON OF THE REJECTED. 


167 


alone that was being buffeted. Then for a moment 
he glanced again at his picture, and slowly inspected 
the otlier canvases in the gallery. And in the collapse 
of his illusions, in the bitter agony of his pride, a 
breath of courage, a whiff of health and youth came 
to him from all this gayly-brave painting, mounting to 
the assault of classical conventionality with such head- 
long passion. He was consoled and inspirited by it; 
he felt no remorse or contrition, but, on the contrary, 
Avas impelled to clash against the public still more. 
No doubt there was a deal of clumsiness and some 
very puerile efforts, but on the other hand what a 
pretty general tone, what a play of light he had thrown 
into it, a silvery gray light, fine and diffused, bright- 
ened by all the dancing sunbeams of the open air. It 
was like a window suddenly opened amidst the old 
style of bituminous cookery, amidst the stewing juices 
of tradition, and the sun came in and the walls smiled 
under this invasion of a spring morning. The light 
note of his picture, the bluey tinge people had been 
railing at, flashed out among the other paintings. Was 
it not the expected dawn, a new aurora rising on art? 
He perceived a critic who had stopped without laugh- 
ing, some celebrated painters looking surprised and 
grave. Papa Malgras, very dirty, going from picture to 
picture with the pout of a wary connoisseur, and 
stopping short in front of his canvas, motionless, 
absorbed. Then Claude turned round to Fagerolles, 
and surprised him by his tardy reply: 

“A fellow can only be an idiot according to his 
own lights, my dear fellow, and it looks as if I were 
going to remain one. So much the better for you if 
you are clever!” 

Fagerolles at once patted him on the shoulder, like 
a chum who had only been in fun, and Claude allowed 
Sandoz to take his arm. They led him off at last. 
The whole band left the “Salon of the Kejected,” 


168 


THE SALON OF THE REJECTED. 


deciding that they would go througli tlie gallery of 
architecture; for a plan for a museum by Dubnche 
had been accepted, and for a moment he had been 
fidgeting about and begging with so humble a look 
that it seemed difficult indeed to deny him this satis- 
faction. 

“Ah! said Jory, jocularly, on entering the gallery, 
“ what an ice cellar. One can breathe here.” , 

They all took off their hats and wiped their fore- 
heads, with a feeling of relief, as i'f they had reached 
a shady spot after a long march in full sunlight. The 
gallery was empty. From the roof, shaded by a 
white linen vellarium, there fell a soft, even, rather 
sad light reflected like quiescent water in the well- 
waxed, mirror-like floor. On the four Avails, of a 
faded red, the plans, the large and small chases, edged 
Avith pale blue borders, displayed the Avashed-in patches 
of their water color tints. Alone — absolutely alone — 
amidst this desert stood a hirsute gentleman, lost in 
deep contemplation before the plan of a charity home. 
Three ladies Avho appeared became frightened and fled 
across the gallery with hasty, little steps. 

Dubuche Avas already shoAving and explaining his 
work to his comrades. It Avas only one drawing, a 
modest little museum gallery, Avhicli he had sent in 
Avith ambitious haste, contrary to custom and against 
the Avish of his employer, Avho, nevertheless, had used 
his influence to have it accepted, thinking himself 
pledged to do so. 

“Is your museum intended for the accommodation 
of the paintings of the ‘Open Air’ school?” asked Fag- 
erolles, very gravely. 

Gagni^re pretended to admire the plan, nodding his 
head, but thinking of something else; Avhile Claude and 
Sandoz examined it and sincerely interested themselves 
in it. 


THE SALON OF THE REJECTED. 


169 


“Not bad, old boy,” said tlie former. “The orna- 
mentation is still traditional; but never mind ; it does.” 

Jory, becoming impatient at last, cut him short: 

“Come along, let's go, eh? I’m catching my death 
of cold.” 

The band resumed its march. The worst was that 
to make a short cut they had to cross the whole of 
the official Salon, and they resigned themselves to 
doing so, notwithstanding the oath they had taken not 
to set their feet in it, as a matter of protest. Cutting 
through the crowd, keeping themselves rigidly erect, 
they followed the suite of galleries, casting indignant 
glances to their right and left. There was none of 
the gay scandal of their Salon, fresh tones and exag- 
gerated sunlight. Gilt frames full of shadows succeeded 
each other; black, pretentious things, academical studies 
showing yellow in the cellar-like light, all the clas- 
sical frippery, history, genre style, landscape, all dipped 
in the same conventional black grease. The works 
reeked with uniform mediocrity, with the muddy 
dinginess of the tone that characterized them, despite 
their primness, that of an art with poor and degenerate 
blood. And the friends quickened their steps: they 
ran to escape from this reign of bitumen still existent, 
condemning everything in a lump with their magni- 
ficent sectarian injustice, repeating that there was 
nothing worth looking at — nothing, nothing! 

At last they emerged, and they were going down 
into the garden when they met Mahoudeau and 
Chaine. The former threw himself into Claude’s arms. 

“Ah, my dear fellow, your picture; what artistic 
temperament!” 

The painter at once began to praise the “ Yintaging 
Girl.” 

“ And you, I say, you have thrown a nice big lump 
at their heads ! ” 

But the sight of Chaine, to whom no one spoke 


170 


THE SALON OF THE REJECTED. 


about the “'VYoman taken in Adultery,” and who was 
silently wandering round, awakened Claude’s compas- 
sion. He thought there was something very sad about 
this execrable painting, and the wasted life of this 
peasant, the victim of middle-class admiration. He 
always gave him the delight of a little praise; so 
now he shook his hand cordially, exclaiming: 

“Your machine’s very good, too — ah, my fine fel- 
low, draughtsmanship has no terrors for you!” 

“No, indeed,” declared Chaine, who had grown 
purple with vanity under his black, bushy beard. 

He and Mahoudeau joined the band, and the lat- 
ter asked the others whether they had seen Cham- 
bouvard’s “Sower.” It was marvellous; the only 
piece of statuary Avorth looking at in the Salon. 
And they all followed him into the garden, which 
the crowd was now invading. 

“There,” said Mahoudeau, stopping in the middle 
of the central path: “Chambouvard is standing just 
in front of his ‘Sower.’” 

In fact, a portly man stood there, solidly planted on 
his fat legs, and admiring his handiwork. His head 
sunk between his shoulders, he had the thick, hand- 
some features of a Hindoo idol. He was said to be 
the son of a veterinary surgeon of the neighborhood 
of Amiens. At forty-five he had already produced 
twenty masterpieces: simple and living statues, quite 
modern in their anatomy, kneaded into shape by a 
workman of genius, without any pretension to refine- 
ment; and all this was chance production, for he 
furnished work as a field bears harvest, good one day, 
bad the next, in absolute ignorance of what he cre- 
ated. He carried the lack of critical acumen to such 
a degree that he made no distinction between tlie 
most glorious offspring of his hands and the detesta- 
bly grotesque figures which he happened to put together 
now and then. Never troubled with nervous feverish- 


THE SALON OF THE KEJECTED. 


171 


ness, never doubting, always solid and convinced, be 
bad the pride of a god. 

“Wonderful, ‘The Sower,’” whispered Claude; “what 
a figure and what an attitude!” 

Fagerolles, who bad not looked at the statue, was 
highly amused by the great man, and the string of 
young, open-mouthed disciples he generally dragged 
at his heels. 

“Just look at them, one would think they are taking 
the sacrament, ’pon my word — and he himself, eh? 
What a good, brutish face!” 

Isolated, and at his ease, amidst the general curiosity, 
Chambouvard stood there wondering, with the stupe- 
fied air of a man surprised at having produced such 
a masterpiece. He seemed to behold it for the first 
time, and was unable to get over his astonishment. 
Then an expression of delight stole gradually over liis 
broad face; he nodded his head, and burst into soft, 
irresistible laughter, repeating a dozen times: “It’s 
comical, it’s really comical!” 

His train of followers went into raptures, while he 
himself could find nothing more forcible to express 
how much he worshipped himself. All at once there 
was a slight stir. Bongrand, who had been walking 
about, his hands behind his back, glancing vaguely 
around him, had just stumbled on Cliambouvard, and 
the public, drawing back, whispered, and watched 
with interest the two celebrated artists shaking hands; 
the one short and of a sanguine temperament: tlie 
other tall and restless. Some expressions of good fel- 
lowship w'ere overheard. “Always fresh marvels.” 
“Of course! and you, nothing this year?” “Ho, 
nothing; I am resting, looking for — ” “Come, you 
joker! There’s no need to look, the thing comes by 
itself.” “Good-bye.” “Good-bye.” And Chambou- 
vard, followed by his court, was already moving 
slowly away among the crowd, with the glances of a 


172 THE SALON OF THE' REJECTED. 

king, kappy to live, wliile Bongrand, who Lad recog- 
nized Claude and liis friends, approached them with 
outstretched, feverish hands, and pointed to the sculp- 
tor with a nervous motion of the chin, saying: 
“There’s a fellow I envy! To be confident of pro- 
ducing nothing but masterpieces!” 

He complimented Mahoudeau on his “Yintaging 
Girl;” showed himself paternal to all of them, with 
that large-minded good-nature of his, the free and easy 
manner of an old master of the romantic school, wlio 
had grown quiet and was decorated. Then turning 
to Claude: 

“Well, what did I tell you? Did you see up- 
stairs? You have become the chief of a school.” 

“Ah! yes,” replied Claude. “They are giving it 
to me nicely! You are the master of us all.” 

Bongrand made his usual gesture of vague suffer- 
ing and went off* saying: “Hold your tongue! I am 
not even my own master.” 

For a few moments longer the band wandered 
through the garden. They had gone back to look at 
the “ Yintaging Girl,” when Jory noticed that Gagni^re 
no longer had Irma Bdcot on his arm. Gagni^re was 
stupefied; where the devil could he have lost her? 
But when Fagerolles had told him that she had gone 
off* in the crowd with two gentlemen, he recovered 
his composure, and followed the others, lighter of 
heart now that he was relieved of this adventure 
which had bewildered him. 

People now only moved about with difficulty. All 
the seats were taken by storm; groups obstructed the 
paths, where the promenaders paused in their slow 
walk, flowing back around the successful bits of 
bronze and marble. From the crowded buffet there 
arose a loud buzzing, a clatter of saucers and spoons 
appended to the throb of life pervading the vast nave. 
The sparrows had flown up amid the forest of 


THE SALON OF THE REJECTED. 


173 


iron girders, and one could hear their sharp little 
chirps, the twittering with which they serenaded the 
setting sun, under the warm panes of the glass roof. 

The atmosphere had now become heavy, there was 
a damp greenhouse- like warmth, the air quite sta- 
tionary. And rising above this surging of the gar- 
den, the din of the first floor galleries, the tramping 
of feet on the iron- girded flooring still rolled on 
with the clamor of a tempest beating against a clift*. 

Claude, who had a keen perception of this rumb- 
ling storm, ended by hearing nothing else; it had 
been let loose and was howling in his ears. It was 
the merriment of the crowd whose jeers and laughter 
blew a hurricane, as it were, in front of his picture. 
With an impatient gesture he exclaimed: 

“Come, what are we messing about here for? I 
sha’n’t take anything at the refreshment bar, it smells 
of the Institute. Let’s go and have a glass of beer 
outside, eh?” 

They all went out, with their legs bending under 
them, and with tired faces expressive of contempt; 
once outside, on finding themselves again face to face 
with healthy Mother Nature in her springtide season, 
they breathed noisily with an air of* delight. It had 
barely struck four o’clock, the slanting sun swept 
along the Champs Elysees and everything flared: the 
serried strings of carriages, the fresh foliage of the 
trees, the sheaf-like fountains which spouted up and 
whirled away in a golden dust. With a louqging 
step they went hesitatingly down the central avenue, 
and finally stranded in a little cafe, the Pavilion de la 
Concorde, to the left, just before reaching the Place. 
The room was so small that they sat down outside at 
the edge of the path, despite the chill falling from the 
foliated vault, already fully grown and gloomy. But 
beyond the four rows of chestnut trees, beyond the belt 
of" verdant shade, they beheld the sunlit roadway of 


174 


THE SALON OF THE REJECTED. 


the main avenne where they saw Paris passing before 
them in a nimbus, the carriages with tlieir wheels, 
radiating like stars, the large yellow omnibuses, look- 
ing eyen more profusely gilded than triumphal chariots, 
horsemen whose steeds seemed to emit sparks, and. foot 
passengers who were transfigured and became resplen- 
dent in the light. 

And during nearly three hours, with his beer untasted 
before him, Claude spoke and discussed, amid growing 
fever, broken down in body, and his mind pregnant 
with all the painting he had just seen. It was the 
usual winding up of their visit to the Salon, more 
impassioned this year, however, on account of the 
liberal measure of the Emperor. It was a rising flood 
of theories, an intoxication of extreme opinions which 
made their tongues clammy, all the passion for art, 
with which their youth was aflame. 

“Well, and what of it?” cried Claude; “the public 
laughs. We must educate the public, that’s all! In 
reality it’s a victory! Take away two hundred gro- 
tesque canvases, and our Salon beats theirs. We 
have courage and audacity — we are the future! Yes, 
yes, you’ll see later on; we’ll kill their Salon. We’ll 
enter it as conquerors, by dint of producing inaster- 
jneces! Laugh, laugh, you big, stupid Paris — laugh 
until you fall on your knees before us!” 

And, stopping short, he pointed prophetically to the 
triumphal avenue, where the luxury and joy of the 
city were rolling by in the sunlight. His gestures 
became' more sweeping still, and included the Place 
de la Concorde, perceived obliquely from where they 
sat under the trees — the Place de la Concorde, with 
one of its fountains with a plashing sheet of water, a 
strip of balustade going off in perspective, and two of 
its statues — Rouen, with gigantic frame, and Lille, 
protruding her huge bare foot. 

“In the o^en air^ it amuses them,” he resumed. 


THE SALON OF THE REJECTED. 


175 


“All riglit, since they are bent on it, the open air, the 
school of the open air! Eh! it was. a thing strictly 
between us, it didn’t exist yesterday beyond the circle 
of a few painters. And now they throw the word upon 
the winds, they themselves found the school! Oh! 
I’m agreeable. Let it be the school of the open air!’' 

Jory slapped his thighs. 

“Didn’t I tell you? I felt sure of making them bite 
with my articles, the idiots that they are! Ah! how 
we’ll bother them now ! ” 

Mahoudeau also was singing victory, constantly drag- 
ing in his “ Yintaging Girl,” the daring points of which 
he explained to silent Chaine, tlie only one who list- 
ened to him; while Gagniere, with the sternness of a 
timid man waxing wroth over a question of pure 
theory, spoke of guillotining the Institute; while San- 
doz, with the inflamed sympathy of the hard worker, 
and Dubuche, giving way to the contagion of revolu- 
tionary friendship, became exasperated, and struck 
the table, swallowing up Paris with each draught of 
beer. Fagerolles, very calm, retained his usual smile. 
He had accompanied them for the sake of amusement, 
for the singular pleasure which he found in pushing 
his comrades into farcical affairs that were bound to 
turn out badly. At the very moment when he was 
lashing their spirit of revolt, he himself formed the 
firm resolution to work in future for the Prix de 
Eome. That day decided him ; he thought it idiotic 
to compromise his talent any further. 

The sun was declining on the horizon, there was now 
only a returning stream of carriages, coming back from 
the Bois in the pale golden shimmer of sunset. The 
closing of •the Salon must be nearly over; a long string 
of pedestrians passed by, gentlemen who looked like 
critics, each with a catalogue under his arm. 

Suddenly Gagniere became enthusiastic: “Ah! Cou- 
ragod, there was one who had his share in inventing 


176 


THE SAEON OF THE EEJECTED. 


landscape painting. Have you seen liis ‘Pond of Gagny’ 
at the Luxembourg?” 

“A marvel!” exclaimed Claude. “It was painted 
thirty years ago, and nothing more substantial has 
been turned out since. Why is it left at the Luxem- 
bourg? It ought to be in the Louvre.” 

“But Couragod isn’t dead,” said Fagerolles. 

“ What! Couragod isn’t dead 1 No one ever sees him 
or speaks of him.” 

Then there was general stupefaction when Fagerolles 
assured them that the great landscape painter, now 
seventy years old, lived somewhere in the neighbor- 
hood of Montmartre, in a little house, among his fowls, 
ducks and dogs. One might outlive one’s own glory, 
then; there were such melancholy instances of old 
artists disappearing before their death. Silence fell 
upon them all; they were taken with a shivering 
when they perceived Bongrand passing by on a friend's 
arm, with a congestive face and a nervous air as he 
waved his arm to them; and, almost immediately 
behind him, surrounded by his disciples, came Cham- 
bouvard, laughing very loud, and tapping his heels on 
the pavement in absolute mastery, confident of immor- 
tality. 

“What? Are you going?” said Mahoudeau to 
Chaine, who was rising from his chair. 

The other mumbled some indistinct words in his 
beard, and went oft' after distributing hand-shakes 
among the party. 

“lie’s going to pay a visit to your friend,” said 
Jory to Mahoudeau. “You know, the herbalist woman, 
with the simples!” 

The sculptor shrugged his shoulders Amidst the 
general laughter. 

But Claude did not hear. He was now discussing 
architecture with Dubuche. No doubt, that plan of a 
museum gallery which he exhibited wasn’t bad; only 


THE SALON OF THE REJECTED. 


177 


there was nothing new in it. It was so much patient 
marquetry of the school formulas. Ought not all the 
arts to advance in one line of battle? Ought not the 
evolution that was transforming literature, painting, 
even music itself, to renovate architecture as well? 
If ever the architecture of a period was to have a 
style of its own, it was assuredly the architecture of 
the period they would soon enter upon, a new period 
with ground freshly swept, ready for the rebuilding 
of everything, a field freshly sown, whence a new 
people would spring. Down with the Greek temples; 
there was no reason why they should continue to 
subsist under our sky amid our society! Down with 
the Gothic cathedrals, since faith in legend was dead! 
Down with the delicate colonnades, the lace-like work 
of the Eenaissance — that reviviscence of the antique 
grafted on mediaevalism — precious art-jewelry, no 
doubt, but in which democracy could not dwell! And 
he demanded, he claimed with violent gestures, the 
architectural formula suited to democracy; the work 
in stone that would express its tenets; the building 
where it would be at home; something vast and 
strong, great and simple at the same time; the some- 
thing that was already being indicated in our railway 
stations, in our markets, with the solid elegance of 
their iron girders, but purified and raised to a standard 
of beauty, proclaiming the grandeur of our intellectual 
conquests. 

“Ah! yes, ah! yes,” repeated Dubuche, catching 
Claude’s entliusiasni; “that’s what I want to accom- 
plish; you’ll see some day. Give me time to succeed, 
and when I’rn my own master — ah! when I’m my 
own master.” 

Night was coming on apace, and Claude was grow- 
incr more and more animated in the enervation of 
his passion, showing a fluency, an eloquence which his 
comrades had not known him to possess. They all 
11 


178 


THE SALON OF THE REJECTED. 


grew excited in listening to liim, ending by becoming 
noisily gay over the extraordinary witticisms lie 
launched forth. He himself, having returned to the 
subject of his picture, again discussed it with a deal 
of gayety, caricaturing the crowd looking at it, and 
imitating the imbecile scale of laughter. Along the 
avenue, now of a cindrous tinge, one only saw the 
shadows of infrequent vehicles dart past. The side- 
path was quite black ; an icy chill fell from the trees. 
Nothing broke the stillness but the sound of song 
coming from a clump of verdure behind the cafe; 
there was some rehearsal at the Concert de I’Horloge, 
it was the sentimental voice of a girl trying a love- 
song. 

“Ah I how they amused me, the idiots I” exclaimed 
Claude, in a last burst. “Do you know, I wouldn’t 
take a hundred thousand francs for my day’s pleasure.” 

Then he relapsed into silence, thoroughly exhausted. 
No one had any strength left; silence reigned; they 
all shivered in the icy gust that swept by. And they 
separated in a sort of bewilderment, shaking hands in 
a tired fashion. Dubuche was going to dine out: Fage- 
rolles had an appointment; in vain did Jory, Mahou- 
deau and Gagni^re try to drag Claude to Foucart’s, a 
twenty-five sous’ restaurant; Sandoz was already taking 
him away on his arm, feeling anxious at seeing him 
so gay. 

“Come along. I promised my mother to be back 
for dinner. You’ll take a bit with us. It will be nice; 
we’ll finish the day together.” 

They both went down the quay, past the Tuileries, 
walking side by side, close to each other in fraternal 
fashion. But at the Pont des Saints-P^res the painter 
stopped short. 

“What, are you going to leave me?” exclaimed 
Sandoz. “Why, I thought you were going to dine 
with me?” 


THE SALON OF THE REJECTED. 


179 


“No, thanks; I’ve too bad a headache. I’m going 
home to bed.” 

And he obstinately abided by this excuse. 

“All right, old man,” said Sandoz at last, with a 
smile. “One doesn’t see much of you now-a-days. 
You live in mystery. Go on, old boy, I don’t want 
to be in your way.” 

Claude restrained a gesture of impatience : and, let- 
ting his friend cross the bridge, he continued his way 
along the quays by himself. He walked along with 
his arms hanging at his sides, his nose fixed on the 
ground, seeing nothing, but taking long strides like 
a somnambulist who is guided by instinct. On the 
Quai de Bourbon, in front of his door, he looked up, 
surprised to see a cab waiting there at the edge of 
the foot pavement, and barring his way. And it was 
with the same automatical step that he entered the 
doorkeeper’s room to take his key. 

“I have given it to that lady,” shouted Madame 
Joseph from the back of the room. “She is up-stairs.” 

“What lady?” he asked in bewilderment. 

“That young person. Come, you know very well, 
the one that always comes.” 

He had not the remotest idea whom she meant. 
Still, in his utter confusion of mind, he decided to 
go up-stairs. The key was in the door, which he 
slowly opened and closed again. 

For a moment Claude stood stock still. The dark- 
ness had invaded the studio; a violet-tinted dimness, 
a melancholy twilight fell from the large window, 
enveloping everything. He could no longer plainly 
distinguish either the floor, or the furniture, or the 
sketches; everything that was lying about seemed to 
melt as it were in the stagnant waters of a pool. 
Showing prominently, however, there was a dark 
figure seated on the edge of the couch, stiff with 


180 


THE SALON OF THE EEJECTED. 


waiting, anxious and despairing amid the last gasp of 
dayligiit. It was Christine; he recognized her. 

She held out her hands, and murmured in a low, 
halting voice: 

“I have been here for three hours; yes, for three 
hours, all alone, and listening. I took a cab on 
leaving there, and I only wanted to stay a minute, 
and get back as soon as possible. But I should have 
stayed all night; I could not go away without shak- 
ing hands with you.” 

She continued, and told him of her mad desire to 
see the picture; her prank of going to the Salon, and 
how she had tumbled into it amidst the storm of 
laughter, amidst the jeers of all those people. It was 
she whom they hissed like that. And seized with 
wild terror, distracted with grief and shame, she had 
fled, as if she had felt the laughter fall upon her bare 
flesh and lash it, as with blows from a whip, until 
tlie blood flowed. But she now forgot about herself 
in her concern for him, upset by the thought of the grief 
he must feel, womanly sensibility magnifying the bit- 
terness of the repulse, and brimming over with the 
need of exercising vast charity. 

“Oh, friend, don’t grieve! I wished to see and tell 
you that they are jealous of it all, that I found the 
picture very nice, and that I feel very proud and 
liappy at having helped you, at being, if ever so little, 
part of it.” 

Still motionless, he listened to her stammering those 
tender words in an ardent voice, and suddenly he sank 
down at her feet, letting his head fall on her knees 
and bursting into tears. All his excitement of tlie 
afternoon, all the bravery he had shown, hissed though 
he was, all his gayety and violence collapsed there, in 
a fit of sobs which well nigh choked him. From the 
gallery where the laughs had buffeted him, he heard 
them pursuing him like a barking pack through the 


THE SALON OF THE EEJECTED. 


181 


Champs Eljsees, then along the banks of the Seine, 
and now in his studio behind his back. His strength 
was utterly spent; he felt weaker than a child; he 
repeated, rolling his head from one side to another, 
in a stifled voice and with vague gestures: 

“My God! how I do suffer!” 

Then she, with her two hands, raised his face to 
her lips in a fit of passion. She kissed him. 

“Be quiet, be quiet, I love you!” she whispered. 

The dusk enveloped them; they remained in each 
other’s arms, overcome, in tears, amid this first trans- 
port of love. Near them, in the middle of the table, 
the lilac she had sent that morning embalmed the 
night air, and — alone shiny with lingering light — the 
scattered particles of gold leaf, wafted from the frame, 
twinkled like a swarming of stars. 


182 


THE COUNTKY HOME. 


CHAPTER YI. 

THE COUNTKY HOME. 

I N the evening, while he was still holding her in 
his arms, he had said to her: 

“Stay.” 

But with an effort she had disengaged herself. 

“I cannot, I must go home.” 

“Then come to-morrow — I beg of you. Do come 
to-morrow.” 

“To-morrow, no, it’s impossible. Good-bye. I’ll 
come soon.” 

And the next morning, already at seven o’clock, she 
was there, her face still flushed with the falsehood she 
had told Madame Yanzade: a young friend from Cler- 
mont whom she was to meet at the station, and with 
whom she should spend the day. 

Claude, delighted at thus possessing her for a whole 
day, wanted to take her into the country, very far away 
under the glorious sunlight, so as to have her entirely 
to himself. She was delighted; they scampered off 
like lunatics, and reached the St. Lazare Station just 
in time to catch the Havre train. He knew beyond 
Mantes a little village called Bennecourt, where there 
was an artists’ inn which he had at times invaded with 
some comrades; and without minding the two hours’ 
rail, he took her to breakfast there, ‘just as he would 
have taken her to Asni^res. She made very merry 
over this journey, to which there seemed no end. So 
much the better if it were to take them to the end of 


THE COUNTRY HOME. 


183 


the world! It seemed to them as if evening would 
never come. 

At ten o’clock they alighted at Bonni^res; thev 
took the ferry — an old ferry-boat creaking and grating 
against its chain — for Bennecourt is situated on the 
opposite bank of the Seine. It was a splendid May 
morning, the rippling wavelets were spangled with 
gold in the sunlight, the young foliage showed 
delicately green against the cloudless azure. And, 
beyond the islets situated at this point of the river, how 
delightful to find the country inn, with its small 
grocery business attached, its large common room, 
smelling of soapsuds, and its vast yard full of manure, 
on which the ducks disported themselves. 

“ Hallo, Faucheur! we have come to breakfast 1 An 
omelette, some sausages and some cheese.” 

“Are you going to stay the night. Monsieur Claude?” 

“No, no; another time. And some white wine; 
eh? you know that pinky wine that grates a bit in 
the throat.” 

Christine had already followed Mother Faucheur to 
the barnyard, and when the latter came back with 
her eggs, she asked Claude with her crafty peasant’s 
laugh : 

“And so now you’re married?” 

“Well,” replied the painter straightway, “it looks 
like it since I’m with my wife.” 

The breakfast was exquisite ; the omelette overdone, 
the sausages too greasy, and the bread so hard that 
he had to cut it into fingers for her lest she should 
hurt her wrist. They emptied two bottles of wine, and 
began a third, so gay and noisy that they ended by 
becoming bewildered in the long room where they par- 
took of the meal all alone. She, with her cheeks 
aflame, declared that she was tipsy; it had never hap- 
pened to her before, and she thought it very funny. 


184 


THE COUNTRY HOME. 


Oh! SO funny, and she burst into uncontrollable 
laughter. 

“Let us get a breath of air,” she said at last. 

“Yes, let’s take a stroll. We must start back at 
four o’clock; so we have three hours before us.” 

They went up the village of Bennecourt, the yellow 
houses of which stretch along the river bank for a 
couple of kilometres. All the villagers were in the 
fields; they only met three cows, led by a little girl. 
He, with an outstretched arm, told her all about the 
locality; seemed to know whither he was going, and 
when they had reached the last house — an old build- 
ing, standing on the bank of the Seine, just opposite 
the slopes of Jeufosse — turned round it, and entered a 
small wood of closely planted oaks. 

Two hours later, when they came out of the wood, 
they started : a peasant stood in the open doorway of 
the house and seemed to have watched them with his 
small eyes, like those of an old wolf. Christine turned 
quite pink, while Claude, to hide his embarrassment, 
shouted out: 

“Hallo! Porrette! Does that shanty belong to you?” 

Then the old fellow, with tears in his eyes, related 
that his tenants had gone away without paying him, 
leaving their furniture behind. And he invited them 
in. 

“There’s no harm in looking; you may know some 
one who would like to take it. There are many 
Parisians who’d be glad of it. Three hundred francs 
a year, with the furniture, it’s for nothing, eh?” 

They inquisitively followed him inside. It was 
a rambling old place that seemed to have been 
cut out of a barn. Down-stairs an immense kitchen 
and a dining-room, in which one might have given 
a dance; up-stairs two rooms also, so vast th.at 
one seemed lost in them. As for the furniture, it con- 
sisted of a walnut bedstead in one of the rooms, and 


THE COUNTRY HOME. 


185 


of a table and some lionsebold utensils in the kitchen. 
But in front of the house the neglected garden, planted 
with magnificent apricot trees, was overgrown with 
large rose-bushes in full bloom ; while , at the back 
there was a potato field, reaching as far as the oak 
plantation, and surrounded by a quickset hedge. 

“I’d leave the potatoes as they are,” said old Por- 
rctte. 

Claude and Christine had looked at each other with 
one of those sudden cravings for solitude and forget- 
fulness common to lovers. Ah! how nice it would 
be to love 'one another there in the depths of this 
nook, so far away from every one else! But they 
smiled. Was such a thing to be thought of? They 
had barely time to catch the train that was to take 
them back to Paris. And the old peasant, who was 
Madame Faucheur’s father, accompanied them along 
the river’s bank, and, as they were stepping into the 
ferry-boat, shouted out to them, after quite an inward 
struggle ; 

“You know, it’ll be two hundred and fifty francs — 
send me some people.” 

On reaching Paris, Claude accompaind Christine to 
Madame Vanzade’s door. They had grown very sad. 
They exchanged a long handshake, silent and despair- 
ing, not daring to kiss each other. 

A life of torment then began. In the course of a 
fortnight she was only able to call on three occasions; 
and she arrived panting, having but a few minutes at 
her disposal, for, as it happened, the old lady was 
very exacting just then. Claude questioned her, feel- 
ing uneasy at- seeing her look so pale, out of sorts, her 
eyes bright with fever. Never had that pious house, 
that vault, without air or light, where she died of 
boredom, caused her so much suffering. Her fits of 
giddiness had come upon her again; the want of 
exercise made the blood throb in her temples. She 


186 


THE COUNTKY HOME. 


owned to him that she had fainted one evening in 
her room, as if she had been suddenly strangled by a 
leaden hand. Still she did not say a word against her 
mistress; on the contrary, she softened on speaking 
of her : the poor creature, so old and so infirm and so 
kind-hearted, who called her her daughter! She felt 
as if she were committing a wicked act each time 
she forsook her to hurry to her lover’s! 

Two more weeks went by. The falsehoods with 
which she had to buy, as it were, each hour of liberty 
became intolerable to her. She quivered with shame 
now when she returned into that home of rectitude, 
where her love seemed a blotch. She had given her- 
self, she would have proclaimed it aloud, and her 
feelings revolted at having to hide it like a crime, 
and having to lie basely, like a servant afraid of 
being sent away. 

At last, one evening in the studio, at the moment 
when she was going away once more, Christine threw 
herself with a distracted gesture into Claude’s arms, 
and sobbing with suffering and passion: “Ah! I can- 
not, I cannot — do keep me with you; prevent me 
from going back.” 

He had caught hold of her, and was almost smoth- 
ering her with kisses. 

“You really love me, then! Oh, my darling! But 
I am so very poor, and you would lose everything. 
Can I allow you to forego everything like this?” 

She sobbed more violently still; her halting w'ords 
were choked by her tears. 

“The money, eh? which she might leave me? Do 
you think I calculate? I have never thought of it, 
I swear it to you! Ah! let her keep everything and 
let me be free. I have no ties, no relatives; can’t I 
be allowed to do as I like?” 

Then, in a last sob of agony: “Ah, you are right; 
it’s wrong to desert her, the poor woman! Ah! I 


THE COUNTRY HOME. 


187 


despise myself! I wish I Lad the strength! But I 
love you too much ! I suffer too much ; surely you 
won’t let me die?” 

“Stay! stay!” he exclaimed. “Let others die, there 
are but we two on earth!” 

They both wept and laughed, swearing amidst their 
kisses that they would never, never leave each other 
again. 

It was so much madness. Christine left Madame 
Vanzade in the most brutal fashion. She took her 
trunk away the very next morning. She and Claude 
had at once remembered the deserted old house at 
Bennecourt, the giant rose-bushes, the immense rooms. 
Ah! to go away, to go away without loss of an hour, 
to live at the world’s end, in the bliss of their fresh 
existence. She clapped her pretty hands for joy. He, 
still bleeding from his defeat at the Salon, and 
anxious to recover from it, longed for complete rest 
in the country; over there he would have the real 
open air, he would work with the grass up to his 
neck, and bring back some masterpieces. In a couple 
of days everything was ready, the studio given up, 
the few household chattels taken to the railway 
station. They had had a slice of luck, a small fortune 
of about five hundred francs paid by Papa Malgras for 
a score of sketches, selected from among the waifs 
and strays of the removal. They would be able to 
live like princes. Claude had still his income of a 
thousand francs a year; Christine had saved some 
money, besides having her outfit and dresses. And 
away they went ; it was a perfect flight, friends avoided 
and not even warned by letter, Paris despised and 
forsaken amid laughter expressive of relief. 

June was drawing to a close, the rain fell in torrents 
during the week they arranged their new home, and 
they discovered that old Porrette had taken away half 
the kitchen utensils before signing their agreement. 


188 


THE COUNTRY HOME. 


But the disillusion did not affect them. They took a 
delight in dabbling about amid the showers; they 
made journeys three leauges long, as far as Vernon, 
to buy plates and saucepans, which they brought back 
with them in triumph. At last they got shipshape, 
only occupying one of the up-stairs rooms, abandoning 
the other one to the mice, transforming the dining- 
room below into a studio ; and, above all, happy and 
pleased like children at having their meals in the 
kitchen off’ a deal table, near the hearth where the 
soup was singing. To wait upon them they had taken 
a girl from the village, who came in the morning and 
went home at night, Melie, a niece of the Faucheurs, 
whose stupidity delighted them. In fact, you could 
not have found a greater idiot in the whole depart- 
ment. The sun having reappeared, some delightful 
da3^s followed, the months melted away amid monot- 
onous felicity. They never knew the date, and they 
mixed up the days of the week together. After break- 
fast came endless strolls, long walks over the table- 
land planted with apple trees, along the grassy country 
roads ; excursions along the banks of the Seine through 
the meadows as far as La Roche-Guyon; and then 
came still more distant explorations, perfect journeys 
on the opposite side of the river, amid the cornfields 
of Bonni^res and Jeufosse. A person obliged to leave 
the neighborhood had sold them an old boat for thirty 
francs, so they also had the river at their disposal, 
and were seized with the passion of savages for it, 
living on its waters for whole days, rowing about, 
discovering new countries, and remaining hidden for 
hours under the willows on the banks, in the little 
creeks, dark with shade. Betwixt the eyots scattered 
along the stream there was a whole city, shifting and 
mysterious, a network of passages along which they 
softly glided, brushed caressingly by the lower branches 
of tile trees, alone, as it were, in the world, with the 


THE COUNTRY HOME. 


189 


ringdoves and tlie kingfishers. He at times had to 
spring out on to the sand, with bare legs, to push the 
skiff. She bravely plied the oars, bent on going 
against the strongest currents, exulting in her strength. 
And in the evening they ate cabbage soup in the 
kitchen, laughing at Melie’s stupidity, just as they had 
laughed at it the day before. 

Every evening Christine said: 

“How, my dear, you must promise me one thing — 
that you’ll set to work to-morrow.” 

“Yes, to-morrow; I give you my word.” 

“And you know if you don’t, I shall really get 
angry this time. Is it I who prevent you?” 

“You I what an idea. Since I came here to work 
—dash it all! you’ll see to-morrow.” 

On the morrow they started off again in the skiff; 
she looked at him with an embarrassed smile when 
she saw that he took neither canvas nor colors. Then 
she kissed him, laughing, proud of her power, moved 
by this constant sacrifice he made to her. And then 
came fresh affectionate remonstrances: “To-morrow, 
ah! to-morrow she would tie him to his easel!” 

However, Claude made some attempts at work. 
He began a study of the slopes of Jeufosse, with 
the Seine in the foreground; but Christine fol- 
lowed him to the islet where he had installed him- 
self, and stretched herself on the grass close to him 
with parted lips, her eyes watching the blue sky. 
And she looked so lovely lying there amidst the ver- 
dure, in this solitude, where nothing broke the silence 
but the rippling of the water, that every minute he 
relinquished his palette to nestle by her side. On 
another occasion, he was altogether charmed by an 
old farm house, just beyond Bennecourt, shaded by 
some antiquated apple tree which had grown to the 
size of oaks. He came there two days in succession, 
but on the third she took him to the market at Bon- 


190 


THE COUNTRY HOME. 


nieres to buy some bens. Tbe next day was also 
lost; tbe canvas bad dried; be grew impatient in try- 
ing to work at it again, and finally abandoned it 
altogether. During tbe whole of tbe warm weather 
' be thus bad but a velleity to work — bits of painting, 
barely roughed out, laid aside on tbe first pretext, 
without an effort at perseverance. His passion for 
work, that fever of former days that made him rise 
at daybreak to battle with bis rebellious art, seemed 
to have gone; a reaction of indifference and laziness 
bad set in, and be vegetated delightfully as if, after 
recovering from some severe illness, be were tasting 
tbe unique joy of living physically only. 

However, the days went by and tbe solitude didn’t 
prove irksome. No desire for diversion, of paying or 
receiving visits, bad yet made them look beyond them- 
selves. Such hours as she did not spend near him 
she employed in noisy household cares, turning tbe 
bouse upside down with grand cleanings, which Melie 
executed under her supervision, having fits of reckless 
activity, which made her engage in personal combats 
with the three saucepans in the kitchen. The garden 
especially occupied her; provided with pruning shears, 
her hands lacerated with thorns, she reaped harvests 
of roses from the giant rose-bushes; she gave herself a 
backache by insisting on gathering the apricots, which 
she had sold for two hundred francs to some of the 
Englishmen who scour the district every year. She 
was very proud of her bargain, and seriously talked 
of living upon the garden produce. He cared less for 
gardening; he had placed his couch in the large din- 
ing-room, transformed into a studio; and he stretched 
himself on it, watching her sow and plant, through the 
wide-open window. There was profound peace, the 
certainty that no one would come, that a ring at the 
bell would not disturb them at any moment of the 
day. He carried this dread of coming in contact with 


THE COUNTRY HOME. 


191 


people so far as to avoid passing before Faucbeur’s 
inn, in bis constant fear of running against a party of 
chums from Paris. Not a soul came throughout the 
livelong summer. And every night he repeated that, 
after all, it was deuced lucky. 

One secret wound, however, bled in the depths of 
his happiness. After the flight from Paris, Sandoz, 
having learnt the address, and having written to ask 
whether he might come and see Claude, the latter had 
not answered his letter; coolness had followed, and the 
old friendship seemed dead. Christine was grieved at 
this, for she realized well enough that he had broken 
oft' for her sake. She constantly reverted to the sub- 
ject; she did not want to estrange him from his 
friends, but insisted upon his inviting them. But 
though he promised to set matters right, he did noth- 
ing of the kind. It was all over; what was the use 
of raking up the past? 

However, money having become scarce towards the 
latter days of July, he was obliged to go to Paris to 
sell Papa Malgras half a dozen of his old studies, and 
on accompanying him to the station, Christine made 
him solemnly promise to go and see Sandoz. In the 
evening she was there again, at the Bonnieres Station, 
waiting for him. 

“Well, did you see him? Did you embrace each 
other?” 

He began walking by her side in silent embarrass- 
ment. Then he answered in a husky voice: 

“No; I hadn’t time.” 

Thereupon, sorely distressed, with two big tears 
welling to her eyes, she replied: 

“You grieve me very much, indeed.” 

And as they walked under the trees he kissed 
her, crying also, and begging of her not to make him 
sadder still. Could people change life? Did it not 
suffice that they were happy together? 


192 


THE COUNTRY HOME 


During the earlier months they only met with some 
strangers once. It was a little above Bennecourt, 
going towards La Roche-Guyon. They were strolling 
along a deserted, wooded path, one of those delightful, 
hollow ways or cuttings, when, at a turning, they came 
upon three people of the middle -class out for a walk — 
father, mother and daughter. It precisely happened 
that, believing themselves to be quite alone, Claude 
and Christine had put their arms round each other’s 
waists, like lovers, forgetting their reserve; she, bend- 
ing towards him, yielded her lips ; while he, laughingly, 
protruded his; and their surprise was so sudden that 
they did not change their attitude, but, still clasped 
together, advanced at the same slow pace. The amazed 
family remained transfixed against one of the banks, 
the father, stout and apoplectic, the mother as thin as 
a knife, the daughter, a mere shadow, looking Lke a 
sick bird moulting — all three of them ugly, and but 
scantily provided with the vitiated blood of their race. 
They looked a disgrace amidst the throbbing life of 
nature, beneath the glorious sun. And all at once the 
sorry child, who, with stupefied eyes was watching love 
pass by, was pushed by her father, dragged along by 
her mother, both beside themselves, exasperated by this 
unrestrained kiss, and asking whether there was no 
longer a police in the country, while, still without 
hurrying, the two lovers went off triumphantly in their 
glory. 

Claude, however, was questioning himself, his mem- 
ory hesitating. Where the devil had he beheld those 
heads, that middle-class degeneracy, those flattened, 
crabbed faces reeking with millions earned at the 
expense of the poor? It was assuredly in some 
important circumstance of his life. And all at once 
he remembered; he recognized the Margaillans, that 
building contractor whom Dubuche had promenaded 
about the Salon of the Rejected, and who had laughed 


THE COUNTRY HOME. 


193 


in front of liis picture with the roaring laughter of a 
fool. A couple of hundred steps further on, as he 
and Christine emerged from the cutting and found 
themselves in front of a vast estate, with a large 
white building girt round with fine trees, they learnt 
from an old peasant woman that La Eichaudi^re, as 
it was called, had belonged to the Margaillans for 
three years ] ' ’ ’ • -t ^ ^ hundred thou- 



sand francs 


more than a 


million in improvements. 

“This part of the country won’t see much of us,” 
said Claude, as they returned to Bennecourt. “These 
monsters spoil the landscape.” 

The winter was a terribly inclement one, and a 
severe cold kept Christine in the draughty house 
which they did not succeed in warming. She suffered 
from very frequent indispositions ; she remained crouch- 
ing over the fire, and was obliged to get angry for 
Claude to go out by himself and take long walks on 
the frost-bound, clanking roads. And he, finding him- 
gelf alone during these walks, after months of constant 
companionship, wondered at the way his life had 
turned, against his own will, as it were. He had 
never wished for such home life even with her; he 
would, had he been consulted, have expressed his 
horror of it; it had come about, however, and could 
not be undone. This fate had evidently been in 
store for him; he had been destined to content him- 
self with the first woman who did not feel ashamed of 
him. The hard ground resounded beneath his wooden- 
soled shoes, the icy blast froze the current of his 
reverie, which lingered on vague thoughts, on his 
luck of having, at any rate, met with an honest girl. 
And his love came back to him; he hurried home 
to take Christine in his trembling arms as if he had 
been in danger of losing her, merely - disconcerted 
when she disengaged herself with a cry of pain. 


12 


194 


THE COUNTEY HOME. 


Christine became the mother of a boy about the 
middle of February. 

From that moment the little fellow revolutionized 
the house, for she, who had shown herself such an 
active housewife, proved to be a very awkward nurse. 
She failed to become motherly, despite her kind heart 
and her distress at the slightest pimple. She grew 
weary, gave in at once, and called for Melie, who only 
made matters worse by her gaping stupidity. The 
father had to come to the rescue, still more awkward 
than the two women. The discomfort which needle- 
work had caused her of old, her want of aptitude as 
regards the usual occupations of her sex, revived in 
the cares the baby required. The child was ill-kept, 
and grew up anyhow in the garden, in the large rooms 
left untidy in sheer despair, littered with swaddling 
clothes and broken toys, the uncleanliness and destruc- 
tion of a young gentleman cutting his teeth. 

It was at this period, however, that Claude resumed 
work a bit. The winter was drawing to a close, he 
did not know how to spend the bright, sunny morn- 
ings, since Christine could no longer go out before 
mid-day on account of Jacques, whom they had 
named thus after his maternal grandfather, though they 
neglected to have him christened. Claude worked in 
the garden, at first, in a random way: made a rough 
sketch of the line of apricot trees, roughed out the 
giant rose-bushes, composed some bits of still life, 
four apples, a bottle, and a stoneware jar, disposed on 
a table-napkin. It was only to pass his time. Then 
he warmed to the work; the idea of painting a figure 
in the full sunlight ended by haunting him ; and from 
that moment his wife became his victim, she herself 
agreeably enongh, offering herself, feeling happy to 
afford him pleasure, without as yet understanding what 
a terrible rival she was giving herself. He painted 
her a score of times, dressed in white, in red, amidst 


THE COUNTRY HOME. 


195 


the verdue, standing, walking, or reclining on the 
grass, with a wide-brimmed straw hat, or bareheaded, 
under a parasol, the cherry-tinted silk of which bathed 
her features in a pinky light. He never felt wholly 
satisfied; he scratched out the canvases after two or 
three sittings, and at once began afresh, obstinately 
sticking to the same subject. A few studies, incom- 
plete, but charmingly indicated in a vigorous style, 
were saved from the palette-knife, and hung against 
the walls of the dining-room. 

And after Christine it became Jacques’ turn to pose. 
They stripped him to the skin, like a little St. John 
the Baptist, and on the warm days, stretched him on 
a blanket, where he was told not to stir. But devil 
a bit could they make him keep still. Getting gay 
and frisky, in the sunlight, he crowed and kicked 
with his tiny pink feet in the air, rolling about and 
turning somersaults. The father, after laughing, grew 
angry, and swore at the tiresome mite, who would not 
keep quiet for a minute. Who ever heard of trifling 
with painting? Then the mother made big eyes at 
the little one, and held him while the painter quickly 
sketched an arm or a leg. Claude obstinately kept at 
it for weeks, tempted as he felt by the pretty tones 
of that childish flesh. It was not the father, but the 
artist, that gloated over the boy as the subject for a 
masterpiece, blinking his eyes, and dreaming of the 
picture he wanted to paint. And he renewed the 
experiment again and again, watching the lad for days, 
and feeling furious that the little scamp would not go 
to sleep just at a time of day when he, Claude, might 
have painted him. 

One day, when Jacques was sobbing, refusing to 
keep still, Christine gently said: 

“My dear, you tire the poor pet.” 

Then Claude burst forth, full of remorse: 

“After all, you are right; I’m a fool with this 


196 


THE COUNTKY HOME. 


painting of mine. Children are not intended for that 
sort of thing.” 

The spring and summer went by still in great peace. 

They went out less often; they had almost given 
up the boat, which finished rotting against the bank, 
for it was quite a job to take the little one with them 
among the islets. But they often strolled along the 
banks of the Seine, without, however, going farther 
afield than a kilometre. He, tired of the everlasting 
views in the garden, now attempted some sketches by 
the riverside, and on such days she went to fetch 
him with the child, sitting down to watch him paint, 
pending the time when they all three returned home 
with’ flagging steps, beneath the ashen -gray dusk of 
waning daylight. One afternoon he was surprised at 
seeing her bring the old album she had used as a 
young girl with her. She joked about it, and explained 
that to sit behind him like that had roused a wish 
to work herself. Her voice was a little unsteady; 
the truth was that she felt a longing to share his 
labor, since this labor took him away from her more 
and more each day. She drew and ventured to wash 
in two or three water colors after the careful method 
of a school-girl. Then, discouraged by his smiles, 
feeling that no community of ideas would be arrived 
at on that ground, she once more put her album 
aside, making him promise to give her some lessons 
in painting when he had time. 

Besides, she thought his latter pictures very pretty. 
After this year of rest in the open country, in the 
full sunlight, he painted with a fresh and clearer vision 
as it were, with a harmonious and brighter coloring. 
He had never before been able to treat reflections so 
skilfully, or possessed a more correct perception of 
men and things bathing in diffused light. And hence- 
forth, won over by this feast of colors, she would 
have declared it all capital if he would have com 


THE COUNTRY HOME. 


197 


descended to finisli liis work a little more, and if she 
had not remained nonplused now and then before a 
mauve, ground or a blue tree, which upset all her 
preconceived notions of coloration. One day when she 
ventured upon a bit of criticism, precisely about an 
azure- tinted poplar, he made her go to nature and 
note for herself the delicate bluishness of the foliage. 
It was true enough, the tree was blue; but in her 
inmost heart she did not surrender, and condemned 
reality; there could not be any blue trees in nature. 

She no longer spoke but gravely of the studies 
hanging in the dining-room. Art was returning into 
their lives, and it made her muse. When she saw 
him go off with his bag, his portable easel and his 
sunshade, it often happened that she flung herself 
round his neck, asking: 

“You love me, say?” 

“How silly you are. Why shouldn’t I love you?” 

“Then kiss me, as you love me, kiss me a great 
deal, a great deal.” 

Then accompanying him as far as the road, she 
added : 

“And mind your work; you know that I have 
never prevented you from working. Go, go; I am 
very much pleased when you work.” 

Anxiety seemed to seize hold of Claude, when the 
autumn of the second year tinged the leaves yellow, 
and ushered in the cold weather. The season just 
happened to be abominable; a fortnight of pouring 
rain kept him idle at home; and then the fog came 
at each moment, hindering his work. He sat in front 
of the Are, out of sorts; he never spoke of Paris, 
but the city rose up over there, on the horizon, the 
winter city, with its gas lamps flaring already at five 
o’clock, its gatherings of friends, spurring each other 
on to emulation, its life of ardent production, which 
even the frosts of December could not slacken. He 


198 


THE COUNTRY HOME. 


went there thrice in one month, on the pretext of see- 
ing Malgras, to whom he had, again, sold a few small 
pictures. He no longer avoided passing in front of 
Faucheur’s inn; he even allowed himself to be waylaid 
by old Porrette, and accepted a glass of white wine, 
and his glance scoured the room as if, despite the 
season, he had been looking for some comrades of 
yore, who had arrived there, perchance, that morning. 
He lingered, as if awaiting them : then, in despair at 
his solitude, he returned home, stifling with all that 
fermented within him, ill at having no one to whom 
he might shout out everything that made his brain 
almost burst. 

However, the winter went by, and Claude had the 
consolation of being able to paint some lovely snow 
scenes. A third year was beginning, when towards 
the close of May, an unexpected meeting filled him 
with emotion. He had that morning clambered up 
the plateau to find a subject, having at last grown 
tired of the banks of the Seine; and, at the bend of a 
road, he stood amazed at seeing Dubuche, in a silk 
hat and carefully-buttoned frock coat, coming towards 
him between the double row of elder hedges. 

“What! is it you!” 

The architect stammered from sheer vexation: 

“Yes, I am going to pay a visit. It’s confoundedly 
idiotic in the country, eh? But it can’t be helped. 
There are certain things one’s obliged to do. And 
you live near here? I knew — that is to say, I didn’t. 
I had been told something about it, but I thought it 
was on the opposite side, farther down.” 

Claude, very much moved at seeing him, helped him 
out of his difficulty. 

“All right, all right, old man, there is no need to 
apologize. I am the most guilty party. Ah! it’s a long 
while since we saw each other! If you knew the 


THE COUNTRY HOME. 


199 


bump my heart gave when I saw your nose appear 
from behind the leaves!” 

Then he took his arm and accompanied him, giggling 
with pleasure, while the other, in his constant pre- 
occupation of his future, which always made him talk 
about himself, at once began speaking of his prospects. 
He had just become a first-class pupil at the School, 
after having, with an infinite deal of trouble, carried 
off the regulation “ honorable mentions.” But his suc- 
cess left him as perplexed as ever. His parents no 
longer sent him a penny, and wailed about their poverty 
so that he might support them in his turn. He had 
given up the idea of competing for the Prix de Kome, 
feeling certain of being beaten, and anxious to earn 
his living. And he was weary already; sick at scour- 
ing the town, at earning one franc twenty -five cen- 
times an hour with ignorant architects, who treated 
him like a hodman. What course should he adopt? 
How was he to guess at the shortest route ? He 
might leave the School; he would get a lift from his 
master, the influential Dequersonni^re, who liked him 
for his docility and application. Only what a deal of 
trouble and uncertainty there would still be before him ! 
And he complained bitterly of the Government schools, 
where one slaved for years, and which did not even 
provide a position for all those they cast upon the 
pavement. 

Suddenly he stopped in the middle of the path. 
The elder hedges were leading to an open plain, and 
La Kichaudi^re appeared amid its lofty trees. 

“Hold hard! of course,” exclaimed Claude, “I 
hadn’t thought about it — you’re going to that shanty. 
Oh, the baboons; there’s a lot of ugly mugs, if you 
like.” 

Dubuche, looking vexed at this artist’s cry, pro- 
tested with an air of stiffness: “All the same, that 
Papa Margaillan, idiot as he seems to you, is a first- 


200 


THE COUNTRY HOME. 


rate man in his own business. You should see him 
in his building-yards, among the houses he runs up, 
as active as the very fiend, with a marvellous per- 
ception of good management, a wonderful scent as to 
the right streets to build and what materials to buy. 
Besides, one does not earn millions without becoming 
a gentleman. And, for what I want of him, I 
should be very silly not to be polite to a man who 
can be useful to me.” 

While talking, he barred the narrow path, pre- 
venting his friend’s advance — no doubt from a fear of 
being compromised by being seen in his company, 
and in order to make him understand that they 
ought to separate there. 

Claude was on the point of inquiring about the 
comrades in Paris, but he kept silent. Not even a 
word was said about Christine, and he was reluc- 
tantly deciding to leave Dubuche, and was already 
holding out his hand, when, in spite of himself, this 
question fell upon his quivering lips: 

“And is Sandoz all right?” 

“Yes, he is pretty well. I seldom see him. He 
spoke to me about you last month. He is still grieved 
at your having shown us the door.” 

“But I didn’t show you the door,” exclaimed Claude, 
beside himself. “Come and see me, I beg of you. I 
shall be so glad.” 

“All right, then, we’ll come. I’ll tell him to come, 
I give you my word. Good-bye, old man, good-bye, 
I am in a hurry.” 

And Dubuche went off towards La Eichaudi^re, 
whilst Claude watched his figure dwindle as he crossed 
the cultivated plain, until nothing remained but the 
shiny silk of his hat and the black spot of his coat. 
He returned home slowly, his heart bursting with a 
nameless sadness. He said nothing to Christine about 
this meeting. 


THE COUNTRY HOME. 


201 


A week later she had gone to Fauchenr’s to buy a 
pound of vermicelli, and lingered on her way back, 
gossiping with a neighbor with a child in her arms, 
when a gentleman who alighted from the ferry-boat 
approached and asked her: 

“Monsieur Claude Lantier? He lives near here, 
does he not?” 

She was taken aback, and simply answered: 

“Yes, sir, if you’ll kindly follow me — ” 

They walked on side by side for about a hundred 
yards. The stranger, who seemed to know her, had 
glanced at her with a good-natured smile; but as she 
hurried on, trying to hide her embarrassment by 
looking very grave, he remained silent. She opened 
the door and showed him into the studio, saying: 

“Claude, here is some one for you.” 

There was a loud cry; the two men were already 
in each other’s arms. 

“Oh, my good old Pierre! how kind of you to 
come! And Dubuche?” 

“He was prevented at the last moment by some 
business, and he sent me a telegram to go without 
him.” 

“All right, I half expected it; but you are here. 
By the thunder of heaven, I am glad!” And turning 
towards Christine, who was smiling, sharing their joy: 
“It’s true, I didn’t tell you. But the other day I 
met Dubuche, who was going up there, to those mon- 
sters’ estate — ” 

But he stopped short again, and then shouted out 
with a mad gesture: 

“I’m losing my wits, upon my word. You have 
never spoken to each other, and I leave you there 
like that. My dear, you see this gentleman. He’s my 
old chum, Pierre ! Sandoz, whom I love like a brother. 
And you, my boy; let me introduce my wife. And 
you are going to give each other a kiss.” 


202 


THE COUNTEY HOME. 


Christine began to laugh outright, and tendered her 
cheek heartily. Sandoz had pleased her at once with 
his good-natured air, his sound friendship, the fatherly 
sympathy with which he looked at her. Tears of 
emotion came to her eyes as he kept both her hands 
in his, saying: 

“You are very good to love Claude, and you must 
love each other always, for it is, after all, the best 
thing in life.” 

Th^n, bending to kiss the little one, whom she had 
on her arm, he added: “So there’s one already?” 

The painter made a vague apologetical gesture: 
“What would you have? That sort of thing comes 
without your thinking of it.” 

Claude retained Sandoz in the studio, while Chris- 
tine turned the house upside down preparing break- 
fast. In a few words he told him the whole of the 
story, who she was, how they had known each other, 
and what had led to their starting housekeeping 
together. 

Sandoz then began to marvel at the studies hanging 
on the walls. Ha, the scamp had turned his time to 
good account! What accuracy of coloring! What a 
dash of real sunlight! And Claude, who was listening 
to him, delighted, and laughing proudly, was just 
going to question him about the comrades in Paris, 
about what they were all of them doing, when Chris- 
tine re-appeared, shouting: 

“Make haste, the eggs are on the table.” 

They breakfasted in the kitchen, an extraordinary 
breakfast, a dish of fried gudgeons after the boiled 
eggs; then the beef from the soup of the night before, 
arranged in salad fashion, with potatoes and red her- 
rings. It was delicious, the pungent and appetizing 
smell of the herrings which Melie had upset on the 
live coals, the song of the coffee, as it passed, drop by 
drop, into the pot standing on the kitchen range. And 


THE COUNTRY HOME. 


203 


when the dessert appeared, some strawberries just gath- 
ered, a cream cheese from a neighboring dairy, they gos- 
siped and gossiped, their elbows squarely set on the 
table. In Paris? Well, to tell the truth, the com- 
rades were doing nothing very original in Paris. 
And yet they were fighting their way, jostling each 
other in order to get first to the front. Of course, 
the absent ones missed their chance; it was as well 
to be there if one did not want to be altogether for- 
gotten. But was talent not talent? Wasn’t a man 
always certain to get on with strength and will? 
Ah! yes, it was a splendid dream to live in the 
country, to accumulate masterpieces, then, one day to 
crush Paris by simply opening one’s trunks. 

In the evening, when Claude accompanied Sandoz 
to the station, the latter said to him: 

“That reminds me I wanted to tell you something. 
I think I am going to get married.” 

The painter burst out laughing. 

While waiting for the train to come up, they went 
on chatting. Sandoz explained his ideas on marriage, 
which, in middle-class fashion, he considered the indis- 
pensable condition of good work, substantial, orderly 
labor, for great modern producers. The destructive 
woman — the woman that kills the artist, pounds his 
heart, and feeds upon his brain — was a romantic idea 
which facts protested against. Besides, as for himself, 
he needed an affection that would prove the guardian 
of his tranquillity, a loving home, where he could shut 
himself up, so as to devote the whole of his life to 
the huge work, the dream of which he carried about 
with him, as it were. And he added that everything, 
depended upon one’s choice — that he believed he had 
found what he had been looking for, an orphan, the 
daughter of petty tradespeople, without a penny, but 
handsome and intelligent. For the last six months, 
after resigning his clerkship, he had embraced journal- 


204 


THE COUNTRY HOME. 


ism, by which he gained a larger income. He had 
just moved his mother to a §mall house at Batignolles, 
where the three would live together, two women to 
love him, and he strong enough to provide for the 
household. 

“Get married, old man,” said Claude. “One should 
act upon one’s feelings. And good -bye, for here’s your 
train. Don’t forget your promise to come and see us 
again.” 

Sandoz returned very often. He dropped in at odd 
times whenever his newspaper work allowed him, being 
still free, for he was not to be married till the autumn. 
These were happy days, whole afternoons of mutual 
confidences, their old determination to secure fame 
revived in common. 

One day, while alone with Claude on an island, with 
his eyes fixed in the sky, Sandoz told him of his vast 
ambition, confessed himself aloud. 

“Journalism, let me tell you, is only a battle-ground. 
One must live, and one has to fight to do so. Then 
again, the press, despite the unpleasant phases of the 
profession, is a tremendous power after all, a resistless 
weapon in the hands of a fellow with convictions. 
But if I am obliged to avail myself of the profession, 
I don’t mean to grow gray in it! Oh, dear, no! And, 
besides, I’ve found what I wanted, a machine that’ll 
crush one with work, something I’m going to plunge 
into, perhaps never to come out of it.” 

Silence reigned amid the foliage, motionless in the 
dense heat. He resumed speaking more slowly and in 
disconnected phrases: 

“So I have found what I wanted for myself. Oh, 
it isn’t much, a little corner only, but sufficient for 
the span of human life, even when one’s ambition is 
over vast. I am going to take a family, and I shall 
study its members, one by one, whence they come, 
whither they go, how they react one upon another. 


THE COUNTRY HOME. 


205 


In short, humanity in a small compass, the way in 
which humanity grows and behaves. On the other 
hand, I shall set my men and women in a deter- 
mined period, which will provide me with the necessary 
surroundings and circumstances, a slice of history. 
You understand, eh? A series of books, fifteen, 
twenty books, episodes that will cling together al- 
though having each a separate framework, a suite of 
novels with which I shall be able to build myself a 
house for my old days, if they don’t crush me!” 

Claude, who had disappeared amid the grass, had 
not stirred. After a fresh spell of silence he summed 
up: 

“That’s it, old boy! Run them through, all of 
them. Only you’ll get trounced.” 

“Oh,” said Sandoz, rising up and stretching him- 
self, “my bones are too hard. They’ll smash their 
own wrists. Let’s go back ; I don’t want to miss the 
train.” 

Christine had taken a great liking to him, seeing 
him so robust and upright in all his doings, and she 
plucked up courage at last to ask a favor of him, 
that of standing godfather to Jacques. True, she 
never set foot in church now, but why shouldn’t the 
lad be treated according to custom? What decided 
her above all was the idea of giving him as a pro- 
tector this godfather whom she found so serious, so 
reasonable even in the exuberance of his strength. 
Claude, expressing surprise, gave his consent with a 
shrug of the shoulders. And the christening took 
place; they found a godmother, the daughter of a 
neighbor, and they made a feast of it, they ate a 
lobster, brought from Paris. 

That very day, as they were saying good-bye, 
Christine took Sandoz aside and said, in an imploring 
voice: 

“Do come again soon, won’t you? He is bored.” 


206 


THE COUNTRY HOME. 


In fact, Claude bad fits of profound melancholy. 
He abandoned his work, went out alone, and prowled 
in spite of himself round about Faucheur’s inn, at the 
spot where the ferry-boat landed its passengers, as if 
ever expecting to see all Paris come ashore. He had 
Paris on the brain; he went there every month and 
returned desolate, unable to work. Autumn came, 
then winter, a wet winter, sodden with mud; and he 
spent it in a morose torpidity, bitter even against 
Sandoz, who, married since October, could no longer 
come to Bennecourt so often. He only seemed to wake 
up at each of these visits; deriving a week’s excite- 
ment from them, and never ceasing to comment fever- 
ishly about the news brought from yonder. He, who 
formerly had hidden his regret of Paris, now-a-days 
bewildered Christine, chatting to her from morn till 
night about things she was quite ignorant of, and 
people she had never seen. When Jacques w*as asleep, 
there were endless comments as they sat by the fire- 
side. He grew inflamed, and she had to give her 
opinion and to pronounce judgment on these stories. 

Was not Gagni^re an idiot for stultifying bis brain 
with music, he who might have developed so con- 
scientious a talent as a landscape painter? It was 
said that he was now taking lessons on the piano from 
a young lady — at his age ! What did she, Christine, 
think of it? Wasn’t it a downright hobby? And 
Jory, who was trying to make up again with Irma 
Becot since she had that little house of her own in 
the Kue de Moscou! She knew them, those two. 
But the most cunning of the whole lot was Fagerolles, 
to whom he’d tell a few plain truths, and no mistake, 
when he met him. What I the turn-coat had com- 
peted for the Prix de Rome, which he had managed 
to miss, however! A fellow who did nothing but 
jeer at the School, and talked about knocking every- 
thing down. Ah, there was no doubt but what the 


THE COUNTRY HOME. 


207 


itching to succeed, the wish to pass over comrades 
and be hailed by idiots, impelled people to very dirty 
tricks. Surely she did not mean to stick up for him, 
eh? She was not sufficiently a Philistine to defend him? 
And when she had agreed with everything Claude 
said, he always came back with nervous laughter to 
the same story, which he thought exceedingly com- 
ical ; the story of Mahoudeau and Chaine, who, between 
them, had killed little Jabouille, the husband of 
Mathilde, that dreadful herbalist woman. Yes, killed 
him one evening when the poor consumptive fellow 
had had a fainting fit, and when, being called in by the 
woman, they had taken to rubbing him so hard that 
he had remained dead under their hands. 

And if Christine failed to look amused, Claude rose 
up and said in a churlish voice: “Oh, you; nothing 
will make you laugh!” 

He still adored her and embraced her with the 
despairing rage of a lover who appeals to passion for 
that unique joy, forgetfulness of everything. And yet 
she no longer sufficed. The fact was that another 
torment had invincibly seized hold of him. 

In the spring, Claude, who had sworn not to exhibit 
again from an affectation of disdain, began to concern 
himself a great deal about the Salon. When he saw 
Sandoz he questioned him about what the comrades 
were going to send. On the opening day he went 
there and came back the same evening all of a tremor, 
very severe. There was only a bust by Mahoudeau, 
well enough, but of no importance; a small landscape 
of Gagni^re’s, admitted among the lot, was also of a 
pretty sunny tone; then there was nothing else, noth- 
ing but Fagerolles’ picture — an actress in front of her 
looking-glass, painting her face. He had not men- 
tioned it at first; but he now spoke of it with indig- 
nant laughter. What a trickster that Fagerolles was! 
Now that he had missed his prize he was no longer 


208 


THE COUNTRY HOME. 


afraid to exliibit; lie decidedly threw the School over- 
board; but you should have seen with what skill he 
managed it, what compromises, a style of painting which 
aped the audacity of truth without possessing one origi- 
nal merit. And it would be sure to meet with success, 
the middle-classes were only too fond of being titillated 
while the artist pretended to hustle them. Ah! it 
was time, indeed, for a true artist to appear in that 
mournful desert of a Salon, amid all the knaves and 
the fools. And, by heavens! what a place might be 
taken there ! 

Christine, who listened while he grew angry, ended 
by faltering: 

“If you liked, we might go back to Paris.” 

“Who was talking about that?” he shouted. “One 
can’t say a word to you without your jumping to 
false conclusions.” 

Six weeks afterwards he heard some news that 
occupied him for a week. His friend Dubuche was 
going to marry Mademoiselle Eegine Margaillan, the 
daughter of the owner of La Eichaudi^re. It was a 
complicated story, the details of which surprised and 
amused him exceedingly. First of all, that cur of a 
Dubuche had managed to hook a medal for a plan 
of a villa in a park, which he had exhibited; that of 
itself was already sufficiently amusing, as the drawing, 
so it was said, had had to be set on its legs by his 
master, Dequersonni^re, who had quietly obtained this 
medal for him, from the jury, over which he presided. 
Then the best of it was that this long awaited award 
had decided the marriage. Ah ! it would be nice 
trafficking if medals were now awarded to settle needy 
pupils in rich families! Old Margaillan, like all par- 
venus, had set his heart upon a son-in-law who could 
help him, by bringing authentic diplomas and fash- 
ionable clothes into the business; and for some time 
past he had had his eyes on this young man, this 


THE COUNTRY HOME. 


209 


pupil of the School of Arts, whose notes were excel- 
lent, who was so persevering, and so highly recom- 
mended by his masters. The medal aroused his 
enthusiasm; he at once gave his daughter and took 
this partner, who would increase his millions lying 
idle tenfold, as he knew all that it was needful to 
know in order to build properly. Besides, by this 
arrangement poor Kegine, always low-spirited and ail- 
ing, would at least have a husband in perfect health. 

“Well, a man must be fond of money to marry that 
wretched flayed kitten,” said Claude. 

And as Christine pityingly took the girl’s part, he 
added: “But I am not down upon her.” 

Then, having become calmer, he professed to under- 
stand, he approved of the marriages of his two old 
chums. It was true enough, all three had taken wives 
unto themselves. How funny life was I 

Once more the summer drew to an end; it was the 
fourth they had spent at Bennecourt. They were 
never to be happier than now; life was peaceful and 
cheap in the depths of this village. Since they had 
been there they hadn’t lacked money. His thousand 
francs a year and the proceeds of the few pictures he 
had sold had. sufficed for their wants; they had even 
put something by and had bought some house linen. 
On the other hand, little Jacques, two years and a 
half old by now, got on admirably in the country. 
From morning till night he rolled about the garden 
in rags and dirt-begrimed, growing as he listed in 
robust, ruddy health. His mother often did not know 
where to take hold of him to wash him a bit. And 
when she saw him eat and sleep well she did not 
trouble much; she reserved her anxious affection for 
her big child of an artist, her dear old man, whose 
black despondency filled her with anguish. The situa- 
tion grew worse each day, and although they lived on 
peacefully without any cause for grief, they, nevertheless, 
13 


210 


THE COUNTRY HOME. 


drifted to melancholy, to a discomfort evinced by con- 
stant irritation. 

It was all over with their first delights of country 
life. I’lieir rotten boat, staved in, had gone to the 
bottom of the Seine. Besides, they did not even think 
of availing themselves of the skiff the Faucheurs had 
placed at their disposal. The river bored them; they 
had grown too lazy to row. They repeated their excla- 
mations of former times respecting certain delightful 
nooks in the islets without ever being tempted to 
return and gaze upon them. Even the walks by the 
riverside had lost their charm; you were broiled there 
in summer, and caught cold there in winter. And as 
for the plateau, the vast stretch of land planted with 
apple trees that overlooked the village, it became like 
a distant countiy, something too far off for one to be 
silly enough to risk one’s legs thither. Their house 
also annoyed them — this barrack where they had to 
take their meals amid the greasy refuse of the kitchen, 
where their room served as a meeting-place for the 
winds from the four points of the compass. As a 
finishing stroke of bad luck, the apricots had failed 
that year, and the finest of the giant rose-bushes, 
which were very old, had been smitten with some 
canker and died. Ho>v sorely time and liabit had worn 
and tom everything! How eternal nature herself seemed 
to age in this satiated weariness of the same views. 
But the worst was that, within himself, the painter 
was getting disgusted with the country, no longer find- 
ing a single subject to arouse his enthusiasm, scouring 
the fields with a mournful tramp, as if they had formed 
a domain henceforth void, of which he had exhausted 
the life without leaving as much as a tree overlooked, 
an effect of light unforeseen, to interest him. No, it 
was over, frozen, he should never again be able to do 
anything worth his while in this confounded country! 

October came with its rain laden sky. On one of 


THE COUNTRY HOME. 


211 


tlie first wet evenings Claude flew into a passion 
because dinner was not ready. He turned that goose 
of a M^lie out of the house and he clouted Jacques, 
who got between his legs. Whereupon, Christine, cry- 
ing, kissed him and said: 

“Let’s go, oh, let us go back to Paris.” 

lie disengaged himself, and cried in an angry voice: 

“What, again! Never; do you hear me?” 

“Do it for my sake,” she said, warmly. “It’s I 
who ask it of you, it’s me that you’ll please.” 

“Why, are you tired of being here then?” 

“Yes, I shall die if we stay here much longer, and 
besides, I want you to work. I feel well enough that 
your place is over there. It would be a crime for 
vou to burv yourself here any longer.” 

“No, leave me!” 

He was quivering. On the horizon Paris was call- 
ing him, the winter Paris being lighted up once 
more. He could hear from where he stood, as it were, 
the great efforts of his comrades, he returned there 
so that they should not triumph without him, 
to become their chief again, since not one of them 
had the strength or the pride to be such. And 
amid this hallucination, amid the desire he felt 
to hasten there, he persisted in refusing to return 
from a spirit of involuntary contradiction, which rose 
up from his very entrails, without his being able to 
account for it. Was it the fear with which the flesh 
of the bravest quivers, the mute struggle of happi- 
ness against the fatality of destiny? 

“Listen,” said Christine, excitedly. “I shall pack 
our boxes, and take you away.” 

Five days later they started for Paris, after having 
packed up everything and sent it to the railway. 

Claude was already on the road with little Jacques, 
when Christine fancied that she had forgotten some- 
thing. She returned alone to the house; she found it 


212 


THE COUNTRY HOME. 


completely empty, and burst out crying. It seemed 
as if something were being torn from her, as if she 
were leaving something of herself behind, what, she 
could not say. How willingly she would have stayed ! 
how ardent was her wish to live there always — she 
who had just insisted on this departure, this return 
to the city of passion where she scented a rival. 
However, she continued searching for what she 
lacked, and ended by plucking a rose, in front of the 
kitchen, a last rose, turned brown by the cold. And 
then she closed the door upon the deserted garden. 


SCOUKING PARIS AGAIN. 


213 


CHAPTER VII. 

SCOURING PARIS .AGAIN. 

W HEN Claude found himself once more on the 
pavement of Paris, he was taken with a 
feverish longing for noise and motion, with a desire 
to gad about, scour the city, and go to see his chums. 
He was off the moment he awoke, leaving Christine 
to get things ship-shape by herself in the studio they 
had taken in the Rue de Douai, near the Boulevard 
de Clichy. In this way, on the second morning of 
his arrival, he dropped in at Mahoudeau’s at eight 
o’clock, in the chill gray November dawn which had 
barely broken. 

However, the shop in the Rue du Cherche-Midi 
which the sculptor still occupied, was open, and 
Mahoudeau himself, half asleep, with a white face, 
was shivering as he took down the shutters. 

“Ah! it’s you? The devil! you were early in the 
country. So it’s settled — you are back for good?” 
“Yes; since the day before yesterday.” 

“That’s all right. Then we shall see something of 
each other. Come in; it’s sharp this morning.” 

But Claude felt colder in the shop than outside. 
He kept the collar of his coat turned up, and plunged 
his hands deep into his pockets; seized with shiver- 
ing before the dripping moisture of the bare walls, 
the muddy heaps of clay, and the constant pools of 
water soddening the soil. The blast of poverty had 
swept into the place, emptying the shelves of the 
casts from the antique,, smashing stands and buckets. 


214 


SCOURING PARIS AGAIN. 


held together with bits of rope. It was an abode of 
dirt and disorder, a mason’s cellar going to wreck. 
And on_ the window of the door, besmeared with 
whitewash, there was, in derision as it were, a large 
beaming sun, roughly drawn with thumbstrokes, and 
ornamented in the centre with a face, the mouth of 
which, describing a semi-circle, was bursting with 
laughter. 

“Just wait,” said Mahoudeau, ^‘a fire’s being lighted. 
These confounded workshops get chilly' directly with 
tiie water from the covering cloths.” 

At that moment, Claude, on turning round, noticed 
Chaine on his knees near the stove, pulling the straw 
from the seat of an old stool to light the coals with. 
He bade him good-morning but only elicited a mut- 
tered growl, without succeeding in making him look 
up. 

“And what are you doing just now, old man?” he 
asked of the sculptor. 

“Oh! nothing of much account. It’s been a bad 
year — worse than the last one, which wasn’t worth a 
rap. There’s a crisis in the church statue business. 
Yes, a bad market for holy wares, and dash it, I’ve 
had to tighten my belt! There, in the meanwhile, I’m 
reduced to this.” 

He took the linen wraps off a bust, and displayed 
a long face, still further elongated by whiskers, a face 
replete with conceit and infinite imbecility. 

“It’s an advocate who lives near by. Doesn’t he 
look repugnant, eh? And the way he worries me 
about being very careful with his mouth. However, 
a fellow must eat, mustn’t he?” 

He certainly had an idea for the Salon; an upright 
figure, a girl about to bathe, .dipping her foot in the 
water, and shivering at its freshness with that slight 
shiver that renders woman so adorable. He showed 
a little model of it, already cracking, to Claude, who 


SCOURING PARIS AGAIN. 


215 


looked at it in silence, surprised and displeased at the 
concessions he noticed in it: a sprouting of prettiness 
beneath persistent exaggeration of form, a natural 
desire to please, without giving up the determined 
tendency to the colossal. But Mahoudeau began 
lamenting; an upright figure was no end of a job. He 
wanted iron braces that cost money, a modelling frame, 
which he had not, quite a lot of apparatus. So he 
would, no doubt, decide to model her lying down by 
the side of the water. 

“AYell, what do you say — what do you think of 
it?” he asked. 

“Not bad,” answered the painter at last. “A little 
bit sentimental, though; but it’ll all depend upon the 
execution. And put her upright, old man, upright, 
else the whole will go to smithereens.” 

The stove was roaring, and Chaine, still mute, rose 
up. He prowled about for a minute, entered the dark 
back shop, where was the bed he shared with Mahou- 
deau, and then reappeared, his hat on his head, but 
more silent still, as it were, with an obstinate, oppres- 
sive silence. With his awkward peasant fingers he 
leisurely took a stick of charcoal and wrote on the 
wall: “I am going to buy some tobacco; put some 
more coals in the stove.” And then he went out. 

Claude, amazed, had watched him writing. He 
turned to the other. 

“What’s up?” 

“We no longer speak to each other; we write,” said 
the sculptor, quietly. 

“Since when?” 

“For the last three months.” 

“And you sleep together?” 

“Yes.” 

Claude burst out laughing. Ah! dash it all! they 
must have hard heads. And what was the reason of 
this falling out? Mahoudeau, vexed, flew into a rage 


216 


SCOURING PARIS AGAIN. 


witli that brute of a Chaine. Hadn’t he, one night, on 
coming home unexpectedly, caught Chaine with Mathilde 
the herbalist woman from next door, gobbling a pot 
of jam? Ho, he would never forgive him for treating 
himself in that dirty fashion to delicacies on the sly 
while he, Mahoudeau, was eating his bread dry! 

And the grudge had now lasted for nearly three 
months without a break, without an explanation. 
They had arranged their lives accordingly; they had 
reduced their strictly necessary intercourse to short 
phrases charcoaled on the walls. After all, there was 
no need for so much talk in one’s existence, folks 
managed to understand each other all the same. 

Meanwhile Mahoudeau, who was finishing his task 
of filling the stove, continued to relieve his mind. 

“Well, you may believe me if you like, but when a 
fellow’s almost starving it isn’t disagreeable never to 
speak a word. Yes, one grows brutish amidst the 
silence; it’s like an inside coating that stills the 
gnawing of the stomach a bit. Ah, that Chaine! 
You haven’t a notion of his peasant nature. When 
he had spent his last copper without earning the for- 
tune he expected by painting, he went into trade, a 
petty trade, which was to enable him to finish his 
studies. Isn’t the fellow a sharp ’un, eh? And just 
listen to his plan. He had olive oil sent to him from 
Saint-Firmin, his village, and then he tramped the 
streets and found a market for the oil among well-to- 
do families from Proven9e living in Paris. Unfortu- 
nately, it did not last. He is such a clodhopper that 
they showed him the door everywhere. And as there 
was a jar of oil left which no one would buy, well, 
old man, we live upon it. Yes, on the days we have 
got soine bread we dip our bread into it.” 

And he pointed to the jar standing in a corner of 
the shop. Some of the oil having been spilt, the wall 
and the floor were black with large, greasy stains. 


SCOURING PARIS AGAIN. 


217 


Claude left off laughing. Ah ! that poverty, what a 
discouragement! How could he show himself harden 
those whom it crushed! He walked about the studio, 
no longer vexed at the models weakened in effect by 
concessions to middle-class taste, and even tolerant with 
regard to the hideous bust. And he thus came across 
a copy Chaine had made at the Louvre, a Mantegna, 
rendered with dryness, marvellously exact. 

“Oh, the brute,” he muttered, “it’s almost the 
original; he’s never done anything better than that. 
Perhaps his only fault is that he was born four cen- 
turies too late.” 

Then as the heat became too great he took off his 
coat, adding: 

“He’s a long while fetching his tobacco.” 

“Oh! his tobacco! I know what that means,” said 
Mahoudeau, who had set to work at his bust, finishing 
the whiskers; “it’s at the other side of the wall, his 
tobacco is. When he sees me occupied he walks off 
in search of Mathilde. What an idiot he is!” 

He, indeed, spoke of Mathilde without the least show 
of anger, simply saying that it must be a disease with 
her. Since little Jabouille’s death, she had become 
devout again, which did not prevent her, however, 
from scandalizing the neighborhood. Although a few 
pious ladies continued to buy various articles of her, 
the herbalist’s business was going to wreck, and bank- 
ruptcy seemed impending. One night, the gas com- 
pany having cut off the gas in default of payment, 
she had come to borrow some of their olive oil, which, 
after all, would not burn in the lamps. She no longer 
paid anybody; she liad even managed to save the cost 
of a workman, by confiding to Chaine the repairs. 
In short, it was quite a disaster; the mysterious shop, 
with its fleeting shadows of priests’ gowns, its discreet 
confessional-like whispers, its chilled sacristy incense, 
all the little services which had been dealt in and which 


218 


SCOURING PARIS AGAIN. 


were not to be mentioned aloud — all was gliding to 
the abandonment of ruin. And the wretchedness had 
reached such a point that the dried herbs suspended 
from the ceiling swarmed with spiders, and that defunct 
leeches, which had already turned green, floated on 
the tops of the glass jars. 

“Hallo, here he comes!” resumed the sculptor. 
“You’ll see her arrive at his heels.” 

In fact, Chaine came in. With a great show he 
drew a paper of tobacco from his pocket, filled his 
pipe, and began to smoke in front of the stove, obsti- 
nately silent, as if there were no one present. And 
immediately afterwards Mathilde made her appearance 
like a neighbor who comes in to say good-morning. 
Claude thought that she had grown still thinner, her 
face bloodshot beneath the skin, her eyes all afire, her 
mouth seemingly enlarged by the loss of two more 
teeth. The smell of the aromatic herbs which she 
always carried in her uncombed hair seemed to have 
become rancid ; it was no longer the sweetness of cam- 
omiles, the freshness of aniseseed. She filled the place 
with that smell of peppermint which seemed to be her 
very breath, but which had turned as if corrupted by 
the flesh that exhaled it. 

“Already at work!” she exclaimed. “Good-morn- 
ing, pet.” And, without minding Claude, she kissed 
Mahoudeau. Then she went to shake hands with the 
painter. And she continued : 

“ What do you think? I have found a box of mal- 
low root, and we Avill treat ourselves to it for break- 
fast. Ain’t 1 nice? We’ll share.” 

“Thanks,” said the sculptor, “it makes my mouth 
sticky. I prefer smoking a pipe.” 

And, seeing that Claude was putting on his coat 
again, he asked: 

“Are you going?” 


SCOURING PARIS AGAIN. 


219 


“Yes. I want to take the rust off me, to breathe 
the air of Paris a bit.” 

All the same, he stopped for another few minutes, 
watching Chaine and Mathilde, who were stuffing 
themselves with mallow root, each taking a piece by 
turns. And though he had been warned, he was again 
amazed when he saw Mahoudeau take up the stick 
of charcoal and write on the wall: “Give me the 
tobacco you have shoved into your pocket.” 

Without a word, Chaine took out the paper and 
handed it to the sculptor, who filled his pipe. 

“Well, I’ll see you again soon,” said Claude. 

“Yes, soon. At any rate, next Thursday, at San- 
doz’s.” 

Outside, Claude gave an exclamation of surprise on 
jostling a gentleman, who was stuck in front of the 
herbalist’s, absorbed in peering into the shop, between 
the stained and dusty surgical bandages in the windows. 

“What, Joryl What are you doing there?” 

Jory’s big pink nose gave a sniff in dismay. 

“I — nothing — I was passing and looked in.” 

Then he decided to laugh, and, as if there were any 
one to overhear him, lowered his voice to ask: 

“She is next door with our friends, isn’t she? All 
right! let’s be off, quick. It will be for another day.” 

And he took the painter with him, telling him all 
manner of stuff*. The whole band came to see Mathilde 
now-a-days. One had told the other, and they went 
there in turns, sometimes several at a time, if the 
whim took them. There were perfect horrors going 
on there, extraordinary things which he whispered 
into Claude’s ear, abruptly stopping him on the pave- 
ment, amidst the jostling of the crowd. 

“But you declared that wom-an to be frightful,” said 
Claude, laughing. 

Jory made a gesture implying that he didn’t care. 
“Oh!” he answered, “she pleases! For instance, myself. 


220 


SCOURING PARIS AGAIN. 


I was coming back from the Montparnasse station just 
now, where I had been to see somebody off. And it 
was on passing along the street that I had the idea 
of profiting by the opportunity to see her. You 
understand, a fellow doesn’t go out of his way 
expressly.” 

He proffered these explanations with an air of embar- 
rassment. But, all at once, the candor of his vice 
drew a cry of truth from him — from him who always 
lied. 

“And, dash it, after all, if you want to know the 
truth, I think her extraordinary — stunning! Not good- 
looking, no doubt, but bewitching. In short, one of 
those women a fellow pretends not to touch with a 
pair of tongs, and for whom he commits the most 
monstrous follies.” 

Then, and then only, he expressed his surprise at 
seeing Claude in Paris, and, when he had been fully 
posted, and learned that the painter meant to remain 
there for good, he said all at once: 

“Listen, I am going to take you with me. You 
are coming to breakfast with me at Irma’s.” 

The painter, taken aback, refused energetically, and 
gave as a reason that he wasn’t even wearing a 
frockcoat. 

“What does that matter? On the contrary, it 
makes it more droll. She’ll be delighted. I believe 
she is spoons upon you. She is always talking about 
you to us. Come, don’t be a fool. I tell you she 
expects me this morning, and we shall be received 
like princes.” 

He did not relax his hold on Claude’s arm, and 
they both continued their way towards the Madeleine, 
talking all the while. As a rule, Jory kept silent 
about his flirtations, just as a drunkard keeps silent 
about his potations. But on that morning he brimmed 
over with revelations, chaffed himself and owned to 


SCOUEING PAEIS AGAIN. 


221 


all sorts of adventures. He Lad long since broken 
off with the music-hall singer, whom he had brought 
from his native town, the one who had skinned his 
face with her nails. And now, from one year’s end 
to another, there was a breakneck gallop of women 
across his existence; women of the most unexpected 
and extravagant kind: the cook of a middle-class 
family with whom he dined now and then; the spouse 
of a police constable, whose hours of duty he had to 
watch for; a young girl employed at a dentist’s, where 
she earned sixty francs a month for allowing herself 
to be sent asleep and awakened before every patient, 
in order to inspire the latter with confidence; and 
others still, nondescript girls from public balls ; 
“respectable” women in quest of adventures; the little 
laundress girls who brought home his washing; the 
charwomen who made his bed; all those who had' a 
mind for amusement ; the chance meetings of the 
streets, all that offered themselves or that could be 
decoyed; and it was all pot luck, the pretty, the ugly, 
the young and the old, indiscriminately. 

After all he was delighted with his existence, his 
affairs went apace. His miserly father had certainly 
cut off the supplies once more, cursing him for obsti- 
nately pursuing his scandalous career, but he did not 
care a rap for that now ; he earned between seven and 
eight thousand francs a year by journalism, in which 
he was making his way as a gossipy leader writer 
and art critic. The noisy days of “The Drummer,” 
the articles at a louis apiece had been left far behind. 
He was getting steady ; wrote for two widely circulated 
papers, ^and although, in his inmost heart, he remained 
a skeptical voluptuary, a worshipper of success at any 
price, he was acquiring importance, and readers began 
to look upon his opinions as fiats. Swayed by his 
hereditary meanness, he already invested money each 
month in petty speculations only known to himself, 


222 


SCOUEING PAEIS AGAIN. 


for never had his vices cost him less than how-a-days. 
Even on mornings of especial generosity, he never stood 
more than a cup of chocolate. 

As they reached the Kue de Moscou, Claude asked : 

“So it’s you who protects this little Becot?” 

“I!” exclaimed Jory, indignantly. “But, old man, 
she pays twenty thousand francs’ rent, and talks of 
buildfhg a house that will cost five hundred thousand! 
No, no! I sometimes lunch and dine with her; it’s 
quite enough. Come, here we are. In with you, quick.” 

But Claude still objected. His wife w^as waiting 
for him to breakfast; he really couldn’t. And Jory 
was obliged to ring the bell, and then pushed him 
inside the hall, repeating that his excuse would not 
do; that they would send the valet to the Eue de 
Douai to tell his wife. A door opened and they found 
themselves face to face with Irma Becot, who uttered 
a cry of surprise when she perceived the painter. 

“What! is it you, savage?” 

She made him feel at home at once by treating 
him like an old chum, and, in fact, he saw well enough 
that she did not even notice his old coat. He him- 
self was astonished, for he barely recognized her. In- 
four years she had become a difterent being, her head 
“made up” with an actress’ skill, her forehead hidden 
beneath her curled hair, her face elongated, by a sheer 
eftbrt of will, no doubt. And from the pale blonde 
she had been she had become daringly carroty; so that 
a Titianesque woman now seemed to have sprung 
from the little urchin-like girl of former days. As 
she herself said at times, that was her head for “flats.” 
The house, with all its show of luxury, still had its 
bald spots. What struck the painter were some good 
pictures on the walls, a Courbet, and, above all, an 
unfinished study by Delacroix. She was not altogether 
a fool, then, this creature, despite a frightful cat in 


SCOUEING PAKIS AGAIN. 


223 


colored biscuit ware, displayed on a console in the 
drawing-room? 

When Jory spoke of sending the valet to his 
friend’s place, she exclaimed in great surprise: 

“What! you are married?” 

“Why, yes,” said Claude, simply. 

She glanced at Jory, who smiled; then she under- 
stood and added: 

“But why did people tell me that you held women 
in horror? And you know that I am awfully vexed, 
I who frightened you, do you remember, eh? You 
think me very ugly then, that you are still drawing 
back?’^ 

She had taken both his hands in hers, bringing her 
face close to his, smiling, but really hurt at heart, 
looking closely into his eyes with the determined wish 
to please. 

It was the coachm-an who went to the Eue de 
Douai with a note from Claude, for the valet had 
opened the door of the dining-room to announce that 
lunch was served. The repast a very delicate one, 
was partaken of in all propriety, under the cold stare 
of the servant. Tliey talked about the great building 
works that were revolutionizing Paris; and they then 
discussed the price of land, like middle-class people 
with money to invest. But at dessert, when they 
were all three alone with the coffee and liqueurs 
which they had decided upon taking there, without 
leaving the table, they became gradually animated, 
they dropped into the old familiar style, as if they 
had met each other at the Cafe Baudequin. 

“Ah, my children,” said Irma, “this is the only 
real enjoyment, to be jolly together and to snap one’s 
fingers at other people.” 

She was twisting cigarettes; she had just placed the 
bottle of chartreuse near her, and had begun to empty 


224 


SCOUEING PAKIS AGAIN. 


it, looking very flushed, her hair flying about, and 
lapsing once more to her low street drollery. 

“So,” continued Jory, who was apologizing for not 
having sent her that morning a book she wanted, “I 
was going to buy it last night at about ten o’clock 
when I met Fagerolles — ” 

“You are telling a lie,” she said, interrupting him 
in a clear voice. And to cut short his protestations: 
“Fagerolles was here, so you see that you are telling 
a lie.” Then, turning to Claude: “No, it’s too dis- 
gusting. You can’t conceive what a liar he is. He 
tells lies like a woman, for the pleasure of it, for the 
meanest trifle. Now, the whole of his story amounts 
simply to this: that he didn’t want to spend three 
friuics to buy me that book. Each time he was to 
have sent me a bouquet, he had dropped it under the 
wheels of a carriage, or there were no flowers to be 
had in all Paris. Ah ! there’s a fellow whom one has 
to love for himself.” 

Jory, without getting in the least angry, tilted back 
his chair and balanced it, sucking his cigar. He merely 
said with a sneer: 

“If you have made it up with Fagerolles — ” 

“I have not made it up at all,” she cried, becom- 
ing furious. “And, besides, it’s no business of yours. 
I snap my fingers at your Fagerolles! Do you hear? 
He knows very well that people don’t quarrel with 
me. We know each other.” 

She was growing ariiinated. He thought it prudent 
to beat a retreat. 

“My Fagerolles,” he muttered, “my Fagerolles!” 

“Yes, your Fagerolles. Do you think that I don’t 
see through you both; he, always patting you on the 
back as he hopes to get articles out of you, and you 
affecting generosity and calculating the profit you’ll 
derive if you write up an artist liked by the public?” 

This time Jory stuttered, feeling very much annoyed 


SCOURING PARIS AGAIN. 


225 


on account of Claude being there. He did not attempt 
to defend himself, however, preferring to turn the 
quarrel into a joke. Wasn’t she amusing, eh, when 
she blazed up like that? 

“Only, my dear, this sort of thing cracks your 
Titian-like ‘make up,’” added Jory. 

She began to laugh, mollified at once. 

Claude, basking in physical comfort, kept on sipping 
one small glass of cognac after another, without noti- 
cing it. During the two hours they had been there a 
kind of intoxication had stolen over them, the hal- 
lucinatory intoxication produced by liqueurs amid 
tobacco smoke. They changed the conversation; the 
high prices that pictures were fetching came into 
question. Irma, who no longer spoke, kept a bit of 
extinguished cigarette between her lips, and had her 
eyes fixed on the painter. And she suddenly ques- 
tioned him, using the familiar “thou” almost uncon- 
sciously : 

“Where did’st thou find thy wife?” 

This question did not appear to surprise him; his 
ideas were going astray. 

“She had just come from the provinces,” he said. 
“She was in a situation with a lady, and a good girl, 
surely.” 

“Pretty?” 

“Why, yes, pretty.” 

For a moment Irma relapsed into her reverie, then 
she said, smiling: 

“Dash it all I What a bit of luck; there were no 
good girls left, so it seems one was created expressly 
for you.” 

However, she shook herself, and exclaimed, rising 
from the table: “Nearly three o’clock! Ah! my chil- 
dren, I must turn you out of the house. Yes, I have 
an appointment with an architect; I am going to see 
some ground near the Parc Monceau, you know, in 
14 


226 


SCOURING PARIS AGAIN. 


the new quarter, which is being built. I have scented a 
stroke of business in that direction.” 

They had returned into the drawing-room. She 
stopped before a glass, annoyed at seeing herself so 
flushed. 

“It’s for that house, isn’t it?” asked Jory. “You 
have found the money, then?” 

She brought her hair down over her forehead again, 
then she seemed to efface with her hands the flush 
on her cheeks; she elongated the oval of her face, and 
re-arranged that tawny head of hers, which had all 
the intelligent charm of a work of art; finally, turning 
round, she merely threw Jory these words by way of 
reply: “Look I there’s my Titian back again.” 

She was already, amidst the laughter, edging them 
towards the hall, where once more, without speaking, 
she took Claude’s hands in her own, her look once 
more diving into the depths of his eyes. When in 
the street he felt uncomfortable. The cold air dissi- 
pated his intoxication; he remorsefully reproached 
himself for having spoken of Christine to that woman, 
and swore to himself that he would never set his feet 
in her house again. 

“A good-natured girl, isn’t she?” said Jory, lighting 
a cigar, which he had taken from the box before 
going. “Besides, you know, it doesn’t bind one to 
anything; a fellow lunches, dines there; and then, 
good-morning, good-night, everybody attends to his 
own business.” 

However, a kind of shame deterred Claude from 
going home at once, and when his companion, excited 
by the luncheon and feeling inclined to loaf about, 
spoke of going to shake hands with Bongrand, he was 
delighted with the idea, and both made their way to 
the Boulevard de Clichy. 

For the last twenty years Bongrand had there 
occupied a vast studio, in which he had not sacrificed 


SCOURING PARIS AGAIN. 


227 


to tlie tastes of the day, to that magnificence of hang- 
ings and nicknacks with which young painters were 
beginning to surround themselves. It was the bare, 
grayish, old studio, exclusively ornamented with 
sketches by the master, hung there without frames, 
and in as close array as the votive offerings in a 
chapel. The only signs of elegance consisted in a 
cheval glass, of the First Empire style, a large Norman 
wardrobe, two arm-chairs, upholstered in Utrecht vel- 
vet, and threadbare with usage. In one corner, a 
bearskin which had lost all its hairs covered a large 
couch. However, the artist had retained since his 
youthful days, spent in the camp of the Komanti cists, 
the habit of wearing a special costume, and it was in 
flowing trousers, in a dressing-gown secured at the 
waist by a silken cord, with his head covered with a 
priest’s skull-cap, that he received his visitors. 

He came to open the door himself, holding his 
palette and his brushes. 

“So here you are! It was a good idea of yours to 
come! I was thinking about you, my dear fellow. 
Yes, I don’t know who it was that told me of your 
return, but I said to myself that it wouldn’t be long 
before I saw you.” 

The hand he had free had grasped Claude’s in a 
burst of sincere affection. He then shook Jory’s, 
adding: 

“And you, young pontiff; I read your last article, 
and thank you for your kind mention of myself. 
Come in, come in, both of you! You don’t disturb 
me; I’m taking advantage of the daylight up to the 
last minute, for there’s hardly time to do anything in 
this confounded month of November.” 

He had resumed his work, standing before his easel, 
on which there was a small canvas; two women, 
mother and daughter, sitting sewing in the embrasure 


228 


SCOUKING PARIS AGAIN. 


of a sunlit window. The young fellows stood looking 
behind him. 

“Exquisite,” murmured Claude, at last. 

Bongrand shrugged his shoulders without turning 
round. 

“Pooh! A mere nothing at all. A fellow must 
occupy his time, eh? I did this from life at a friend’s 
house, and I am cleaning it a bit.” 

“But it’s perfect — it is a little gem of truth and 
light,” replied Claude, warming up. “And do you 
know, what overcomes me is its simplicity, its very 
simplicity.” 

On hearing this the painter stepped back, and 
blinked his eyes, looking very surprised. 

“You think so? It really pleases you? Well, when 
you came in I was just thinking it was a foul bit 
of work. I give you my word, I was in the dumps, 
and felt convinced that 1 hadn’t a scrap of talent 
left.” 

His hands shook, all his stalwart frame trembled 
as with the agony of travail. He rid himself of his 
palette, and came back towards them, his arms sawing 
the air, as it were; and this artist, grown old amidst 
success, who was assured of holding a place in the 
French School, cried out to them: 

“It surprises you, eh? but there are days when I 
ask myself whether I shall be able to draw a nose 
correctly. Yes, at every one of my pictures I still 
feel the emotion of the beginner; my heart beats, 
anguish parches my mouth, in fact, I fail abominably.” 

He seemed to have increased in stature, reaching 
to the elevated ceiling of the studio, and shaken by 
such deep emotion that the tears started to his eyes. 
And he dropped into a chair before his picture, ask- 
ing with the anxious look of a beginner who has 
need of encouragement: 

“ Then this really seems to you all right ? I 


SCOURING PARIS AGAIN. 


229 


myself no longer dare to believe anything. My 
unhappiness springs from my having at the same 
time both too much and not enough critical acumen. 
The moment I begin a sketch I exalt it, then, if it’s 
not successful, I torture myself. It would be better 
not to know anything at all about it, like that brute 
Chambouvard, or else to see very clearly into the 
business and then give up painting. Eeally now, you 
like this little canvas?” 

Claude and Jory remained motionless, astonished 
and embarrassed before this sob of intense anguish 
of art in its travail. Had they arrived at a moment 
of crisis, that this master thus groaned with pain, 
and consulted them like comrades? The worst was 
that they had been unable to disguise some hesitation 
under the gaze of the ardent, dilated eyes with which 
he implored them — eyes in which one could read the 
hidden fear of decline. They knew current rumors 
well enough ; they agreed with the opinion that since 
his “Village Wedding” the painter had produced 
nothing equal to that famous picture. Indeed, after 
having maintained that standard of excellence in a 
few works, he was now gliding into a more scientific, 
dryer manner. Brightness of color was vanishing; 
each work seemed to show a decline. However, 
these were things not to be said; so Claude, when he 
had recovered his composure, exclaimed: 

“You never painted anything so powerful.” 

Bongrand looked at him again, straight in the eyes. 
Then he turned to his work, in which he became 
absorbed, making a movement with his herculean 
arms, as if he had broken every bone of them in lift- 
ing this little canvas which was so very light. And 
he muttered to himself: 

“Confound it! how heavy it is! Never mind. I’ll 
die at it rather than show a falling off.” 

He took up his palette and grew calm a,t the first 


230 


SCOURING PARIS AGAIN. 


stroke of tlie brush, bending his manly shoulders, and 
the nape of his broad neck, about which one noticed 
traces of the peasant’s obstinate build remaining amid 
the middle-class refinement. 

A silence had ensued, but Jory, his eyes still fixed 
on the picture, asked: 

“Is it sold?” 

Bongrand replied leisurely, like the artist who works 
when he likes, without care of profit: 

“No. I feel paralyzed when I’ve a dealer at my 
back.” 

And without interrupting his work, he went on 
talking, growing waggish: 

“Ah! people are beginning to make a trade of 
painting now. Keally and truly I have never seen 
such a thing before, old as I am getting. For 
instance, you, Mr. Amiable Journalist, what a quan- 
tity of flowers you fling to the young ones in that 
article in which you mentioned me? There were two 
or three youngsters spoken of who were simply 
geniuses, nothing less.” 

Jory burst out laughing. 

“Well, when a fellow has a paper, he must make 
use of it. Besides, the public likes to have great 
men discovered for it.” 

Bongrand shook his head, and then started off 
again, amid a tremendous burst of mirth: 

“No! no! one can no longer throw off the merest 
daub without being hailed as a young ‘master.’ 
Well, if you only knew how your young masters 
amuse me.” 

But as if these words had led to a connection of 
ideas, he cooled down, and turned towards Claude to 
ask this question: “By the way, have you seen 
Fagerolles’ picture?” 

“Yes,” said the young fellow, quietly. 

They both continued looking at each other: a rest- 


SCOURING PARIS AGAIN. 


231 


less smile had risen to their lips, and Bongrand 
eventually added: 

“ There’s a fellow who pillages you right and left.” 

Jory, becoming embarrassed, had lowered his eyes, 
asking himself whether he should defend Fagerolles. 
He, no doubt, concluded that it would be profitable 
to do so, for he began ta praise the picture, that 
actress in her dressing-room, an engraving of which 
was then attracting a great deal of notice in the print 
shops. Was not the subject a really modern one? 
Was it not well-painted, in the bright, clear tone of 
the new school? A little more vigor might, perhaps, 
have been desirable; but every one ought to be left 
with his own temperament. And, besides, refinement 
and charm were not so common by any means, now- 
a-days. 

Bending over his eanvas, Bongrand, who, as a rule, 
had nothing but paternal praise for the young ones, 
shook and made a visible effort not to burst out. 
The explosion took place, however, in spite of him- 
self. 

“Just shut up, eh? about your Fagerolles. Do you 
think us greater fools than we really are I There! 
you see the great painter here present. Yes ; I mean 
the young gentleman in front of you. Well, the 
whole trick consists in pilfering his originality, and 
dishing it up with the wishy-washy sauce of the 
School of Arts.” 

He brandished his palette and brushes aloft, in his 
clenched fists. 

“You are severe,” said Claude, feeling embarrassed. 
“Fagerolles shows delicacy in his work.” 

“I have been told,” muttered Jory, mildly, “that he 
has just signed a very profitable agreement with 
Naudet.” 

The name, thrown haphazard into the conversation. 


232 


SCOUKING PARIS AGAIN. 


had the effect of once more soothing Bongrand, who 
repeated, wagging his shoulders: 

“Ah! Naudet — ahl Naudet.” 

And he greatly amused the young fellows by tell- 
ing them about hTaudet, with whom he was well 
acquainted. He was a dealer, who, for some few years, 
had been revolutionizing -the picture trade. There 
was nothing of the old game about his style — the 
greasy coat and keen taste of Papa Malgras, the watch- 
ing for the pictures of beginners, bought at ten francs, 
to be resold at fifteen, all the little humdrum comedy 
of the connoisseur, turning up his nose at the coveted 
canvas, in order to depreciate it, worshipping painting 
in his inmost heart, and earning a meagre living by 
quickly turning over his petty capital in a prudent 
way. No, no, the famous Naudet had the appearance 
of a nobleman, with a fancy -pattern jacket, a diamond 
pin in his scarf, and patent-leather boots; he was well 
pomaded, and brushed; and lived in fine style — a livery- 
stable carriage by the month, a stall at -the opera, his 
particular table at Bignon’s, showing himself wherever 
it was the correct thing to be seen. For the rest of 
the matter, a speculator, a Stock Exchange gambler, 
not caring one rap about art. But he unfailingly 
scented success, he guessed what artist ought to be 
properly started, not the one who seemed likely to 
develop the genius of a great painter, furnishing food 
for discussion, but the one whose deceptive talent, set 
off by a pretended display of audacity, would command 
a premium in the market. And that was the way in 
which he revolutionized this market, giving the 
amateur of taste the cold shoulder, and only treating 
with the moneyed amateur, who knows nothing about 
art, but Avho buys a picture as he buys a share at the 
Stock Exchange, either from vanity or with the hope 
that it will rise in value. 

At this stage of the conversation Bongrand, very 


SCOUKING PAKIS AGAIN. 


233 


jocular By nature, and with a good deal of the mum- 
mer about him, began to enact the scene. Enter 
Naudet in Fagerolles’ studio. 

‘“You’ve real genius, my dear fellow. Your last 
picture is sold, then? For how much?’ 

‘“For five hundred francs.’ 

“‘But you. must be mad; it was worth twelve 
hundred. And this one which you have by you — 
how much?’ 

“‘Well, my faith, I don’t know. Suppose we say 
twelve hundred? ’ 

“‘What are you talking about? Twelve hundred 
francs! You don’t understand me, then, my boy; it’s 
worth two thousand. I take it at two thousand. And 
from this day you must work for no one but myself 
— for me, Naudet. Good-bye, good-bye, my dear fellow; 
don’t overwork yourself — your fortune is made. I have 
taken it in hand.’ Wherewith he goes off, taking 
the picture with him in his carriage. He trots it 
round among his amateurs, among whom he has spread 
the rumor that he has just discovered an extraordinary 
painter. One of the amateurs bites at last, and asks 
the price. 

“‘Five thousand.’ 

“‘What, five thousand francs for the picture of a 
man whose name hasn’t the least notoriety! Are you 
playing the fool with me?’ 

‘“Look here. I’ll make you a proposal: I’ll sell it 
you for five thousand francs, and I’ll sign an agree- 
ment to take it back in a twelyemonth at six thou- 
sand, if you no longer care for it.’ 

“Of course the amateur is tempted. What does he 
risk after all? In reality it’s a good speculation, and 
so he buys. After that Haudet loses no time, but 
disposes in a similar manner of nine or ten paintings 
by the same man during the course of the year. Vanity 
gets mingled with the hope of gain, the prices go up, 


234 


SCOURING PARIS AGAIN. 


the pictures get regularly quoted, so that when Nau- 
det returns to see his amateur, the latter, instead of 
returning the picture, buys another one at eight thous- 
and francs. And the prices continue to go up, and 
painting degenerates into something shady, a kind of 
gold mine situated on the heights of Montmartre, pro- 
moted by a number of bankers, and around which 
there is the battle of bank notes.” 

Claude was growing indignant, but Jory thought it 
all very clever, when there came a knock at the door. 
Bongrand, who went to open it, uttered a cry of sur- 
prise. 

“Naudet, as I live! We were just talking about 
you.” 

Naudet, very correctly dressed, without a speck of 
mud, despite the horrible weather, bowed and came in 
with the reverential politeness of a man of society 
entering a church. 

“ Yery much pleased — feel flattered, indeed, dear mas- 
ter. And you only spoke well of me, I’m sure of it.” 

“Not at all, Naudet, not at all,” said Bongrand, in 
a quiet tone. “We were saying that your manner of 
trading was giving us a nice generation of artists — 
tricksters crossed with dishonest business men.” 

Naudet smiled, without losing his composure. 

“The remark is harsh, but so charming! Never 
mind, never mind, dear master, nothing that you say 
offends me.” And, dropping into ecstasy before the 
picture of the two little women at needlework: “Ah! 
good heavens, I didn’t know this! It’s a little marvel! 
Ah! that light, that broad substantial treatment! 
One has to go back to Kembrandt for anything like 
it; yes, to Kembrandt! Look here, I only came in to 
pay my respects, but I thank my lucky star for hav- 
ing brought me here. Let us do a little bit of busi- 
ness. Let me have this gem. Anything you like to 
ask for it. I’ll cover it with gold.” 


SCOURING PARIS AGAIN. 


235 


One could see Bongrand’s back shake, as if bis 
irritation were increasing at each sentence. He curtly 
interrupted the dealer: 

“Too late; it’s sold.” 

“Sold, you say. And you cannot annul your bar- 
gain? Tell 'me, at any rate, to whom it’s sold. I’ll 
do everything. I’ll give anything. Ah I What a hor- 
rible blow. Sold, are you quite sure of it? Suppose 
you were offered double the sum?” 

“It’s sold, Haudet. That’s enough, isn’t it?” 

However, the dealer went on lamenting. He remained 
for a few minutes longer, going into raptures before 
other sketches, making the tour of the studio with the 
keen glances of a bettor in search of luck. When he 
realized that his time was badly chosen, and that he 
would take nothing away with him, he went off, bow- 
ing with an air of gratitude, and repeating remarks 
of admiration as far as the landing. 

As soon as he had gone, Jory, who had listened to 
the conversation with surprise, ventured to ask a 
question : 

“But you told us I thought — It isn’t sold, is it?” 

Without immediately answering, Bongrand went 
back to his picture. Then, in his thundering voice, 
resuming all his hidden suffering, the whole of the 
nascent struggle he dared not avow, in one cry: 

“He plagues me. He shall never have anything. 
Let him go and buy of Fagerolles!” 

A quarter of an hour later, Claude and Jory also 
said good-bye, leaving him struggling with his" work 
in the waning daylight. Once outside, when the for- 
mer had left his companion, he did not at once return 
home to the Eue de Douai, in spite of his long 
absence. He still felt the want of walking about, of 
yielding himself up to this Paris, where the meetings 
of one single day sufficed to fill his brain; and this 
need of motion made him wander about till the black 


236 


SCOUKING PARiS AGAIN. 


night had fallen, through the frozen mud of the streets, 
beneath the flaring gas-lamps, lighted up one by one, 
like nebulous stars amidst the fog. 

Claude impatiently awaited the Thursday when he 
was to dine at Sandoz’s, for the latter, immutable in 
his habits, still invited his cronies once a week. All 
those who chose could come, their places were laid. 
His marriage, his change of life, the ardent literary 
struggle into which he had thrown himself, made no 
difference; he kept to his day “at home,” that Thursday 
which dated from his leaving the college, from the 
time they had smoked their first pipes. As he him- 
self expressed it, alluding to his wife, there was only 
one chum more. 

“I say, old man,” he had frankly said to Claude, 
“I’m greatly worried — ” 

“What about?” 

“You are not married — Oh! as for me, you know, 
I would willingly invite your wife. But there are a 
lot of idiots, a lot of Philistines watching me, who 
would relate all manner of abominable things — ” 

“You are perfectly right, old man. But Christine 
herself would decline to come to your place — oh! we 
understand the thing very well. I’ll come alone, depend 
upon it.” 

At six o’clock, Claude started for Sandoz’s, Eue 
Nollet, in the depths of Batignolles, and he had no 
end of trouble in finding the small pavilion his friend 
occupied. First of all he entered a large house facing 
the street, and applied to the doorkeeper, who made 
him cross three court-yards; then he went along a 
passage, between two other buildings, descended some 
steps, and tumbled upon the iron gate of a small 
garden. That was the spot, the pavilion was there at 
the end of a path. But it was so dark, he had nearly 
broken his legs coming down the steps, that he dared 
not venture any further., the more so as a huge dog 


SCOUEING PARIS AGAIN. 


237 


was barking furiously. At last be beard tbc voice 
of Sandoz, wbo was coming forward, trying to quiet 
tbe dog. 

“ Ab, it’s you! We are quite in tbe country, aren’t 
we? We are going to put up a lantern, so that our 
company may not break tbeir necks. Come in, come 
in. Will you bold your noise, you brute of a Ber- 
trand? Don’t you see that it’s a friend, fool?” 

Thereupon tbe dog accompanied them as far as tbe 
pavilion, wagging bis tail and barking joyously. A 
young servant girl bad come out with a lantern, 
wbich sbe fastened to tbe gate, in order to light up 
tbe breakneck steps. In tbe garden there was only a 
small central lawn, on which there stood a large plum 
tree, diffusing shade that rotted tbe grass; and before 
tbe low bouse, showing only three windows, in front, 
there stretched an arbor of Virginia creeper, with a 
brand new seat shining there as an ornament amid 
tbe winter showers and awaiting tbe advent of tbe 
summer sun. 

“Come in,” repeated Sandoz. 

On the right band side of tbe ball be ushered 
Claude into the parlor, which be bad turned into a 
study. The dining-room and kitchen were on tbe 
left. Up-stairs, his mother, who was now altogether 
bedridden, occupied tbe larger room, while tbe young 
couple contented themselves with tbe other one, and 
tbe dressing-room dividing tbe two. And that was 
all, a real cardboard box, with rooms like little 
drawers separated by partitions as thin as paper. 
Withal, tbe abode of work and hope, and vast in com- 
parison with tbe garrets of youth, already made 
bright by a beginning of comfort and luxury. 

“There’s room here, eh?” he exclaimed. “Ah! 
it’s a jolly sight more comfortable than in the Eue 
d’Enfer. • You see I’ve a room to myself. And I 
have bought myself an oaken writing-table, and my 


238 


SCOURING PARIS AGAIN. 


wife made me a present of that dwarf palm in that 
pot of old Eouen ware. Isn’t it swell, eh?” 

His wife came in at that very moment. Tall, with 
a pleasant, tranquil face, and beautiful brown hair, 
she wore a large white apron over her plainly made 
dress of black poplin; for although they had a reg- 
ular servant, she saw to the cooking, being proud of 
certain dishes, and putting the household on a footing 
of middle-class cleanliness and love of cheer. 

.She and Claude were old chums at once. 

“ Call him Claude, my darling. And you, old man, 
call her Henriette. No madame nor monsieur; or I 
shall fine you five sous each time.” 

They laughed, and she scampered away, being 
wanted in the kitchen to look after a southern dish, 
a bouillabaisse, with which she wished to surprise the 
Plassans friends. She had obtained the recipe from 
her husband himself, and had become marvellously deft 
at it, so he said. 

“Your wife is charming,” said Claude, “and I see 
she spoils you.” 

But Sandoz, seated at his table, his elbows among 
such pages of the book he was working at as he had 
written that morning, began to talk of the first novel 
of his series, which he had published in October. 
Ahl they had treated his poor book nicely I It had 
been a throttling, a butchering, all the critics yelling 
at his heels, a broadside of imprecations, as if he had 
murdered people in a wood. He himself laughed at 
it, excited rather than otherwise, his shoulders solid, 
and having the quiet bearing of the toiler who knows 
what he’s after. Merely surprise remained to him at 
the profound lack of intelligence shown by these fel- 
lows, whose articles, knocked oft* on the corner of 
some table, bespattered him with mud, without appear- 
ing as much as to guess at the least of his intentions. 
Everything was flung into the same slop-pail of 


SCOUKING PARIS AGAIN. 


239 


abuse ; bis new study of physiological man ; the 
important part he assigned to circumstances and sur- 
roundings ; his allusions to nature, ever and ever cre- 
ating; in short, life — entire, universal life — existent 
through all the animal world without there really 
being either high or low, beauty or ugliness; he was 
insulted, too, for his boldness of language, the convic- 
tion that everything should be said, that there are 
abominable expressions that become necessary like 
branding irons, that a language emerges enriched from 
such strength-giving baths. He easily granted their 
anger, but he would at least have liked them to do 
him the honor of understanding him and getting 
angry at his audacity, not at the idiotic designs of 
which he was accused. 

“Really,” he continued, “I believe that the world 
still contains more idiots than downright spiteful 
people. They are enraged with me on account of the 
form I give to my productions, the written sentences, 
the similes, the very life of the style. Yes, the mid- 
dle-classes fairly split with hatred of literature.” 

Then he became silent, having grown sad. 

“ Hever mind,” said Claude, after an interval, “ you 
are happy, you at least work, you produce.” 

Sandoz had arisen from his seat with a gesture of 
sudden pain. 

“ True, I work. I work out my books to their 
last page. But if you only knew, if I told you amidst 
what discouragement, amidst what torture I Won't 
these idiots take it into their heads to accuse me of 
pride ! I, whom the imperfection of my work pursues 
even in my sleep— I, who never look over the pages 
of the day before, lest I should find them so execra- 
ble that I might afterwards lack the courage to con- 
tinue. Oh, I work, no doubt, I work I I go on work- 
ing, as I go on living, because I am born to it, but I 
am not any the gayer on account of it. I am never 


240 


SCOURING PARIS AGAIN. 


satisfied; there is always the great collapse at the 

He was interrupted by a loud voice outside, and 
Jory appeared, delighted with life, and relating that 
he had just touched up an old article in order to have 
this evening to himself. Almost immediately after- 
wards Gagni^re and Mahoudeau, who had met at the 
door, came in conversing together. The former, who 
had been absorbed for some months in a theory of 
colors, was explaining his system to the other. 

Claude, interested at once, was already questioning 
him, when the servant brought in a telegram. 

“All right,” said Sandoz, “it’s from Dubuche, who 
apologizes; he promises to come and surprise us at 
about eleven o’clock.” 

At this moment Henriette threw the door wide open, 
and personally announced that dinner was ready. She 
had doffed her white apron, and cordially shook hands, 
as hostess, with all of them. “Take your seats! take 
your seats!” It was half-past seven already, the 
bouillabaisse couldn’t wait. Jory, having observed 
that Fagerolles had sworn to him that he would come, 
they would not hear of it. Fagerolles was getting 
ridiculous with his way of aping the great artist 
overwhelmed with work ! 

The dining-room into which they passed was so 
small that, in order to make room for a piano, a kind 
of alcove had had to be made out of a dark closet 
which had formerly served for the accommodation of 
crockery. However, on grand occasions half-a-score 
of people still gathered round the table, under the 
white porcelain suspension lamp, but this was only 
accomplished by blocking up the sideboard, so that 
the servant could not even pass to take a plate from 
it. Besides, it was the mistress of the house who 
carved, while the master took his place facing her. 


SCOUKING PAKIS AGAIN. 


241 


against the blockaded sideboard, in order to take from 
it and hand round whatever things were required. 

Henriette had placed Claude on her right hand, 
Mahoudeau on her left, while Gagni^re and Jory were 
seated next to Sandoz. 

“Fran9oise,” she called out, “give me the slices of 
toast. They are on the range.” 

And the girl having brought the toast, she distri- 
buted two slices to each of them, and she was begin- 
ning to pour the bouillabaisse into the plates, when 
the door opened once more. 

“ Fagerolles at last I ” she said. “ I have given your 
seat to Mahoudeau. Sit down there next to Claude.” 

He apologized with an air of courtly politeness, by 
alleging a business appointment. Yery elegantly dres- 
sed, tightly buttoned up in clothes of an English cut, 
he had the carriage of a man about town, relieved by 
a touch of artistic free-and-easiness which he had 
preserved. Immediately on sitting down he grasped 
his neighbor’s hand, affecting great delight. 

“Ah, my old Claudel I have for such a long time 
wanted to see you. A score of times I intended to 
go after you into the country; but then, you know, 
circumstances — ” 

Claude, feeling uncomfortable at these protestations, 
endeavored to meet them with a like cordiality. But 
Henriette, who was still serving, saved the situation 
by growing impatient. 

“Come, Fagerolles, just answer me. Do you wish 
for two slices of toast?” 

“ Certainly, madame, two, if you please. I am very 
fond of bouillabaisse. Besides, yours is delicious, a 
marvel ! ” 

In fact, they all went into raptures over it, especially 
Jory and Mahoudeau, who declared they had never 
tasted anything better at Marseilles; so much so that 
the young wife, delighted and still flushed with the 
15 


242 


SCOURING PARIS AGAIN. 


lieat of the kitchen, her ladle in her hand, had all she 
could do to refill the plates held out to her, and, 
indeed, she rose up and ran in person to the kitchen 
to fetch the remains of the soup, for the servant girl 
was losing her wits. 

“Come, eat something,” said Sandoz to her. “We’ll 
wait well enough till you have done.” 

But she was obstinate and remained standing. 

“Never mind me. You had better pass the bread — 
yes, there, behind you on the sideboard. Jory prefers 
crumb which he can soak in the soup.” 

Sandoz got up in his turn and assisted his wife while 
the others chaffed Jory on his love for sops. And 
Claude, moved by the pleasant cordiality of his hosts, 
and awaking, as it were, from a long sleep, looked at 
them all, asking himself whether he had only left them 
on the previous night, or whether it was really four 
years since he had dined there one Thursday. They 
were different, however; he felt them to be changed. 
Mahoudeau soured by poverty, Jory wrapt up in his 
own pleasures, Gagni^re more distant, with his thoughts 
elsewhere. And it especially seemed to him that 
Fagerolles, near by, exhaled a chill, in spite of his 
exaggerated cordiality. No doubt their features had 
aged somewhat amid the wear and tear of life; but 
it was not only that, it seemed as if there was a void 
between them; he beheld them isolated and estranged 
from each other, although seated elbow to elbow in 
close array round the table. Then the surroundings 
were different; now-a-days, a woman brought her charm 
to bear on them, and calmed them by her presence. 
Then why had he, face to face with this irrevocable 
current of things, which die and are renewed, this 
sensation of beginning over again — why could he have 
sworn that he had been seated at that same place 
only last Thursday? At last he thought he under- 
stood. It was Sandoz who had not changed, as obsti- 


SCOURING PARIS AGAIN. 


243 


nate as regards his habits of friendship, as regards his 
habits of work, as radiant at being able to receive 
his friends at the board of his new home as he had 
formerly been, when sharing his frugal bachelor fare 
with them. A dream of eternal friendship made him 
immutable. Thursdays similar one to another fol- 
lowed and followed on until the furthest stages of 
their lives. All of them eternally together, all started 
at the self-same hour, and participating in the same 
triumph ! 

Sandoz must have guessed the thought that kept 
Claude mute, for he said to him across the table, with 
his frank, youthful smile: 

“Well, old man, here you are again I Ah, confound 
it! we missed you sorely. But, you see, nothing is 
changed ; we are all the same — aren’t we, all of you ? ” 

They answered by nodding their heads, no doubt, 
no doubt! 

“With this difference,” he went on, beaming as it 
were, “with this difference, that the cookery is some- 
what better than in the Eue d’Enfer! What a lot of 
messes I did make you swallow!” 

After the bouillabaisse there came a civet of hare; 
and a roast fowl and salad terminated the dinner. 
But they sat for a long time at table, and the dessert 
proved a protracted affair, although the conversation 
lacked the fever and violence of yore. Every one 
spoke of himself and ended by relapsing into silence 
on perceiving that no one listened to him. With the 
cheese, however, when they had tasted some Burgundy 
wine, a sharp little growth which the young couple 
had ordered a cask of, on the strength of the profits 
of the first novel, their voices rose to a higher key, 
and they all grew animated. 

“So you have made an arrangement with Naudet, 
eh?” asked Mahoudeau, whose bony starveling’s 
cheeks seemed to have grown still more hollow. “Is 


244 


SCOUKING PARIS AGAIN. 


it true that he guarantees you fifty thousand francs 
for the first year? ” 

Fagerolles replied, with affected carelessness: “Yes, 
fifty thousand francs. But nothing is settled; I’m 
thinking it over. It is hard to engage one’s self like 
that. I am not going to do anything precipitately.” 

“The devil!” muttered the sculptor, “you are hard 
to please. For twenty francs a day I’d sign whatever 
you like.” 

They all now listened to Fagerolles, who posed as 
being wearied out by his budding success. He still 
had the same good-looking, disturbing face, but the way 
he wore his hair and the cut of his beard lent him an 
appearance of gravity. Although he still came at long 
intervals to Sandoz’s, he was separating from the 
band ; he showed himself on the boulevards, frequented 
the cafes and newspaper offices, all the places where 
a man can advertise himself and make useful acquaint- 
ances. These were tactics of his own, a determina- 
tion to cut out his own victory apart from the others; 
the smart idea that if he wished to triumph he ought 
to have nothing more in common with these revolu- 
tionists, neither a dealer, connections, nor habits. It 
was even said that he had interested the female ele- 
ment of two or three drawing-rooms in his success, 
not in Jory’s style, but like a fellow who rises 
superior to his passions, and merely tickles the fancies 
of superannuated baronesses. 

Just then Jory, in view of lending importance to him- 
self, called his attention to a recently published article; 
the journalist pretended to have made Fagerolles just 
as he pretended to have made Claude. “I say, have 
you read that article of Vernier’s on yourself? There’s 
another fellow who repeats my ideas!” 

“Ah! he does get articles, and no mistake!” sighed 
Mahoudeau. 

Fagerolles made a careless gesture, but he smiled 


SCOUKING PARIS AGAIN. 


245 


with secret contempt for these poor beggars who were 
so utterly deficient in shrewdness that they persisted, 
like simpletons, in their crude style, when it was so 
easy to conquer the crowd. Had he not merely had 
to break with them, after pillaging them? He bene- 
fited by all the hatred that folks had against them; 
his pictures, of a softened, attenuated style, were held 
up in praise, so as to deal the death-blow to their 
works, ever obstinately violent. 

“Have you read Vernier’s article!” asked Jory of 
Gagniere. “Doesn’t he say exactly what I said?” 

For the last few moments Gagniere had been 
absorbed in contemplating his glass, the wine in which 
cast a ruddy reflection on the white table-cloth. He 
started. 

“Eh, what, Vernier’s article?” 

“Why, yes; in fact, all those articles which appear 
about Fagerolles.” 

Gagniere in amazement turned to the painter. 

“What, they are writing articles about you? I 
know nothing about them, I haven’t seen them. Ah, 
thev are writing articles about you, but what for?” 

There was a mad roar of laughter. Fagerolles alone 
grinned with an ill grace, for he fancied himself the 
butt of some spiteful joke. But Gagniere spoke in 
absolute good faith. He felt surprised at the success 
of a painter who did not even observe the laws respect- 
ing the value of tints. Success for that trickster! 
Never! What would become of conscientiousness? 

This boisterous hilarity enlivened the end of the 
dinner. They all left ofi eating, though the mistress 
of the house still insisted upon filling their plates. 

“My dear, do attend to them,” she kept saying to 
Sandoz, who had grown very excited amidst the dinner. 
“Just stretch out your hand; the biscuits are on the 
sideboard.” 

They all declined anything more, and rose up. As 


246 


SCOUKING PARIS AGAIN. 


the rest of the evening was spent there, round the 
table, drinking tea, they leaned back against the walls 
and continued chatting while the servant cleared away. 
The young couple assisted, she putting away the salt- 
cellars in a drawer, he helping to fold the cloth. 

“You can smoke,” said Henriette. “You know that 
it doesn’t inconvenience me in the least.” 

Fagerolles, who had drawn Claude into the window 
recess, offered him a cigar, which was declined. 

“True, I forgot; you don’t smoke. And, I say, I 
must go to see what you have brought back with 
you. Some very interesting things, no doubt. You 
know what I think of your talent. You are the 
cleverest of us all.” 

He showed himself very humble, sincere at heart, 
and allowing his admiration of former days to rise 
once more to the surface; indeed, he forever bore the 
imprint of another’s genius which he admitted, despite 
the complex calculations of his cunning. But his 
humility was mingled with a certain embarrassment 
very rare with him — the concern he felt at the silence 
which the master of his youth preserved respecting 
his picture. At last he ventured to ask, with quiver- 
ing lips: 

“Have you seen my actress at the Salon? Do you 
like that? Tell me candidly.” 

Claude hesitated for a moment; then, like the good- 
natured fellow he was, he said: 

“Yes, there are some very good bits in it.” 

Fagerolles already repented having asked that stupid 
question, and he ended by altogether floundering; he 
tried to excuse himself, to exculpate his plagiarisms, 
and to defend his compromises. When with great 
difficulty he had got out of the mess, enraged with 
himself for his clumsiness, he for a moment became 
the joker of yore again, made even Claude laugh till 


SCOUKING PARIS AGAIN. 


247 


he cried, and amused them all. Then he held out 
his hand to take leave of Henriette. 

“What, going so soon?” 

“Alas! yes, dear madame. My father is entertain- 
ing this evening the head of a department at one of 
the ministries, an official whom he’s trying to influ- 
ence in view of obtaining a decoration; and, as I am 
one of his titles to that distinction, I had to promise 
that I would look in.” 

When he was gone, Henriette, who had exchanged 
a few words in a low voice with Sandoz, disappeared; 
and her light footfall was heard on the first floor. 
Since her marriage it was she who tended the old, 
infirm mother, absenting herself like this several times 
during the evening, just as the son had done formerly. 

Not one of the guests, however, had noticed her 
leave the room. Mahoudeau and Gagniere were talk- 
ing about Fagerolles; showing themselves covertly 
bitter, without openly attacking him. As yet they 
contented themselves with ironical glances at one 
another, shrugging their shoulders, with the silent 
contempt of fellows who don’t wish to slash a chum. 
Then they fell back on Claude ; they prostrated them- 
selves before him, overwhelmed him with the hopes 
they set in him'. Ah! it was high time for him to 
come back, for he alqne, with his gifts of a great 
painter, his vigorous touch, could become the master, 
the recognized chief. Since the Salon of the Eejected 
the school of the “Open Air” had increased in numbers; 
a growing influence was making itself felt; but, unfor- 
tunately, the efforts were frittered away; the new 
recruits contented themselves with producing sketches, 
impressions thrown off with a few strokes of the brush; 
they were awaiting the necessary man of genius, the 
one who would incarnate the new formula in master- 
pieces. What a position to take! — to master the crowd, 
to open up a century, to create a new aft! Claude 


248 


SCOURING PARIS AGAIN. 


listened to them, his eyes bent to the ground, his face 
grown pale. Yes, that, indeed, was his unavowed dream, 
the ambition he dare not confess to himself. Only 
with the delight that the flattery caused him there 
was mingled a strange anguish, a dread of the future, 
as he heard them raising him to the position of dic- 
tator as if he had already triumphed. 

“Don’t,” he exclaimed at last; “there are others as 
good as myself. I am still seeking my real vein.” 

Jory, annoyed, was smoking in silence. Suddenly, 
as the others obstinately kept' at it, he could not refrain 
from remarking; 

“All this, my boys, is because you are vexed at 
Fagerolles’ success.” 

They energetically denied it; they burst out in pro- 
testations. Fagerolles! the young master! What a 
good joke! 

“Oh, you are turning your back upon us, we know 
it,” said Mahoudeau. “There’s no fear of your writing 
a line about us now-a-days.” 

“Well, my dear fellow,” answered Jory, vexed, 
“everything I -write about you is cut out. You make 
yourselves hated everywhere. Ah! if I had a paper 
of my own!” 

Henriette came back, and Sandoz’s eyes having 
sought hers, she answered him with a glance, with 
the same affectionate, quiet smile that he had shown 
when leaving his mother’s room in former times. 
Then she summoned them all. They sat down again 
round the table while she made the tea and poured 
it out. But the gathering grew sad, benumbed, as it 
were, with lassitude. Sandoz vainly tried a diversion 
by letting in Bertrand, the big dog, who grovelled at 
sight of the sugar-basin, and ended by going to sleep 
near the stove, where he snored like a man. Since 
the discussion on Fagerolles there were intervals of 
silence, a kind of bored irritation, which fell heavily 


SCOURING PARIS AGAIN. 


249 


upon tliem, amidst the dense tobacco smoke. And, in 
fact, Gagni^re felt so out of sorts that he left the 
table for a moment to seat himself at the piano, 
murdering some passages from Wagner in a subdued 
key, with the stiff fingers of an amateur who tries 
his first scale at thirty. 

Towards eleven o’clock Dubuche, arriving at last, 
gave the finishing stroke towards freezing the gather- 
ing. He had made his escape from a ball to fulfil 
what he considered a remaining duty towards his old 
comrades; and his dress-coat, his white necktie, his fat, 
pale face, simultaneously evinced his vexation at having 
come, the importance he attached to the sacrifice, the 
fear he felt of compromising his newly acquired posi- 
tion. He avoided mentioning his wife, so as not to 
have to bring her to Sandoz’s. When he had shaken 
hands with Claude, without showing more emotion 
than if he had met him the day before, he declined 
a cup of tea and spoke slowly — puffing out his 
cheeks — of the worry of his settling in a brand new 
house; of the work that overwhelmed hirh since he 
attended to the business of his father-in-law, who was 
building a whole street near the Parc Monceau. 

Then Claude felt distinctly that something had snap- 
ped. Had life already carried away the evenings of 
yore, so fraternal in their very violence, when 
nothing had as yet separated them, when not one had 
thought of keeping his part of glory to himself? How- 
a-days the battle was beginning. Each starveling was 
giving his bite. The fissure was there, the scarcely 
perceptible crack that had rent the old, sworn friend- 
ships, and which would make them fall some day 
into a thousand pieces. 

However, Sandoz, with his craving for perpetuity, 
had noticed nothing so far; he still saw them as they 
had been in the Eue d’Enfer, all arm in arm, starting 
off to victory. Why change what was well ? Did not 


250 


SCOURING PARIS AGAIN. 


happiness consist in one pleasure selected from among 
all, and then enjoyed forever afterwards? And when, 
an hour later, the comrades made up their minds to 
go off, rendered sleepy by the dull egotism of Dubuche, 
who had not left off talking about his own affairs; 
when they had dragged Gagni^re, in a trance, away 
from the piano, Sandoz, followed by his wife, abso- 
lutely insisted, despite the coldness of the night, on 
accompanying them to the gate at the end of the 
garden. He distributed shakes of the hand, and 
shouted after them: 

“Till Tliursday, Claude; till next Thursday, all of 
you, ell? Mind you all come!” 

“Till Thursday!” repeated Henriette, who had 
taken the lantern and was holding it aloft so as to 
light up the steps. 

And, amid the laughter, Gagni^re and Mahoudeau 
replied jokingly : 

“Till Thursday, young master !— good -night, young 
master!” 

Once in the Eue Nollet, Dubuche immediately 
hailed a cab in which he drove away. The other 
four walked together as far as the outer boulevards, 
scarcely exchanging a word, looking dazed, as it were, 
at having been in each other’s company so long. A 
girl having passed them on the boulevard, Jory went 
off* behind her, after pretending that some proofs were 
waiting for him at the office of his newspaper. Gag- 
ni^re mechanically stopped Claude in front of the 
Cafd Baudequin, the gas of which was still blazing 
away. Mahoudeau refused to go in, and went oft’ 
alone, sadly ruminating, towards the Eue du Cherche- 
Midi. 

Without knowing how, Claude found himself seated 
at their old table, opposite Gagni^re, who was silent. 
The cafd had not changed. The friends still met 
there of a Sunday, showing a deal of fervor, in fact, 


SCOURING PARIS AGAIN. 


251 


since Sandoz had lived in the neighborhood; but the 
band was now lost amid a flood of new-comers; it was 
gradually becoming submerged beneath the rising 
triteness of the young disciples of the “Open Air.” 
At this hour of night the establishment* was getting 
empty. Three young painters, whom Claude did not 
know, came to shake hands with him as they went 
off; and then there merely remained a petty retired 
tradesman of the neighborhood, asleep in front of a 
saucer. 

Gagni^re, quite at his ease, as if he had been at 
home, absolutely indifferent to the yawns of the soli- 
tary waiter, who was stretching his arms, glanced at 
Claude, but without seeing him, his eyes lost in space. 

“By the way,” said the latter, “what were you 
explaining to Mahoudeau this evening? Yes, the red 
of a flag turning yellowish amid the blue of the sky. 
That was it, eh? You are studying the theory of 

CO 



He took up 


answer. 


his glass of beer, set it down again without tasting 
its contents, and with an ecstatic smile ended by 
muttering ; 

“ Haydn has the gracefulness of the rhetorician — 
his is a gentle music, quivering like the voice of a 
great-grandmother in powdered hair. Mozart, he’s 
the precursory genius — the first who endowed the 
orchestra with an individual voice ; and those two 
will live mostly because they created Beethoven. Ah, 
Beethoven ! power and strength in serene suffering, 
Michael Angelo at the tomb of the Medici ! A heroic 
logician, a kneader of human brains ; for the sym- 
phony, with choral accompaniments, has been the 
starting-point of all the great ones of to-day!” 

The waiter, tired of waiting, began to turn off the 
gas, wearily dragging his feet along. A melancholy 
air pervaded the deserted room, dirty with cigar 


252 


SCOUKING PARIS AGAIN. 


ends, and exhaling the smell of the tables, sticky 
with spilt drink : while from the hushed boulevard 
no sound came but the distant blubbering of some 
drunkard. 

Gagni^re, still in the clouds, continued to ride the 
hobby-horse of his dreams. 

“I am going to shut up, sir,” repeated the waiter. 

Claude, who no longer listened, he also being absor- 
bed in his own passion, emptied his glass of beer and 
said very loud: 

“Eh, old man, they are going to shut up.” 

Then Gagni^re trembled. A painful twitch came 
over his ecstatic face, and he shivered as if he had 
dropped from the stars. He gulped down his beer, 
and then on the pavement outside, after pressing his 
companion’s hand in silence, he went away, and disap- 
peared amid the gloom. 

It was nearly two o’clock in the morning when 
Claude returned to the Eue de Douai. For the last 
week that he had been scouring Paris anew, he each 
time brought back with him the feverish excitement 
of the day. But he had never as yet returned so late, 
with his brain so hot and smoky. Christine, over- 
come with fatigue, was asleep under the lamp that 
had gone out, her head reclining on the edge of the 
table. 


A CATASTROPHE AND A WEDDING. 


253 


CHAPTER YIII. 

A CATASTROPHE AND A WEDDING. 

A t last Christine gave a final stroke with her 
feather-broom, and they were settled. This 
studio in the Rue de Douai, small and inconvenient, 
had only one narrow room, and a kitchen, about as 
big as a cupboard, attached to it. They were obliged 
to take their meals in the studio; they had to live in 
it, with the child always tumbling about them. And 
she had had a deal of trouble in utilizing their few 
sticks, for she wanted to save expense. Nevertheless, 
she had been obliged to buy a second-hand bedstead; 
and she had even yielded to the temptation of having 
some white muslin curtains at seven sous the m^tre. 
After that this whole seemed charming to her, and 
she began to keep it scrupulously clean, having 
resolved to do everything herself, and to dispense with 
a servant, as living would be a difficult matter. 

During the first months Claude lived in ever 
increasing excitement. His peregrinations through the 
noisy streets ; his feverish discussions on the occasion 
of his visits to his chums; all the rages and burning 
ideas he thus brought home from out of doors made 
him hold forth aloud even in his sleep. Paris had 
seized hold of him again in his very marrow, vio- 
lently; and in the full blaze of this furnace, a second 
youth, an enthusiasm, an ambition to see, do, and 
conquer everything, had come upon him. Never had 
he experienced such a rage for work, such hope, as 
if it had sufficed for him to merely stretch out his 


254 


A CATASTROPHE AND A WEDDING. 


hand in order to create masterpieces that should set 
him in the right rank, the first. While crossing 
Paris he discovered subjects for pictures everywhere ; 
the whole city, with its streets, open places, bridges 
and living horizons, stretched away in immense fres- 
coes, which he always found too small, however, 
being taken with the intoxication of doing something 
colossal. And he returned home quivering, his brain 
seething with projects, throwing oft* sketches on bits 
of paper, in the lamp-light of an evening, without 
being able to decide where he should begin the series 
of grand productions he dreamt about. 

One serious obstacle was the smallness of his studio. 
If he had only had the old garret of the Quai de 
Bourbon, or even the vast dining-room of Bennecourt.. 
But what could he do in this oblong strip, in this 
kind of passage, which the landlord had the impudence 
to let to painters for four hundred francs a year, 
after having had it covered with glass. And the worst 
was that the sloping glazed roof looking to the north, 
between two high walls, only admitted a greenish, 
cellar-like light. He was therefore obliged to postpone 
his ambitious projects, and he decided to begin, first of 
all, with average-sized canvases, saying to himself that 
the dimensions of a picture are not a test of an artist’s 
genius. 

In fact, the moment seemed to him favorable for 
the success of a brave artist, who would, at length, 
bring some originality and sincerity into his work, 
amidst the breaking up of the old schools. The for- 
mulas of recent times were already shaken. 

In that first hour of passion and hope, Claude, 
habitually so harassed by doubts, believed in his 
genius. He no longer experienced any of those crises, 
the anguish of which drove him for days into the 
streets, in quest of his vanished courage. A fever 
stift‘ened him, he worked with the blind obstinacy of 


A CATASTROPHE AND A WEDDING. 


255 


tlie artist wlio cuts into his entrails to drag there- 
from the fruit that tortures him. His long rest in 
the country had endowed him with a singular fresh- 
ness of visual perception, a joyous delight in execu- 
tion; he seemed to have been born anew to his art, 
with a facility and balance of power he had not 
hitherto possessed. He also felt certain of progress, 
and experienced profound content before some success- 
ful bits of work, in which his former sterile efforts 
at last culminated. As he had said at Bennecourt, he 
had got hold of his “Open Air,” of that painting of 
a carolling gayety of tints which astonished his com- 
rades when they came to see him. They all admired, 
convinced that he would only have to show himself 
to take a place, and a very high one, with works of 
so individual a tone, in which, for the first time, 
nature would be shown, flooded with real light, amid 
the play of refraction and the constant decomposition 
of colors. 

And, for three years, Claude struggled on, without 
giving in, spurred to furtlier efforts by rebuffs, abandon- 
ing naught of his ideas, but marching straight before 
him with the austerity of faith. 

To begin with, during the first year he went amid 
the December snows to station himself for four hours 
a day behind the heights of Montmartre, at the cor- 
ner of a patch of waste land, whence he painted a 
miserable-looking background, some low, tumble-down 
buildings, overtopped by factory chimneys, and in the 
foreground, amid the snow, he set a girl and a street 
rouoh in rags devouring stolen apples. His obstinacy 
in painting from nature complicated his work terribly, 
burdened it with almost insuperable difficulties. How- 
ever, he finished this picture outdoors; he ojfly cleaned 
and touched it up a bit in his studio. When the 
canvas was placed beneath the wan daylight of the 
glazed roof, he himself was startled by its brutality. 


256 


A CATASTROPHE AND A WEDDING. 


It was like a door opened on tke street. The snow 
blinded one. The two figures, of a muddy gray in 
tint, stood out, looking lamentable. He at once felt 
that such a picture would not be accepted, but he did 
not tr}^ to soften it; he sent it to the Salon all the 
same. After having sworn that he would never again 
try to exhibit, he now laid down the principle that 
one should always present something to the hanging 
committee merely to show the latter to be in the 
wrong. Besides, he admitted the utility of the Salon, 
the only battlefield on which an artist might come 
to the fore at one stroke. The hanging committee 
refused his picture. 

The second year he sought for a contrast. He 
selected a bit of the public garden of Batignolles, in 
May; in the background, some large chestnut trees 
casting their shade, a corner of greensward and some 
six-storied houses; while in the foreground, on a seat 
of a crude green tint, some nurses and some petty 
cits of the neighborhood sat in a line watching three 
little girls making sand pies. He had needed some 
heroism, when permission to paint there had been 
obtained, to bring his work to a successful issue amid 
the bantering crowd. At last he made up his mind 
to go there at five in the morning to paint in the 
background; and reserving the figures, he resigned 
himself to making mere sketches of them, and finish- 
ing them in his studio. This time his picture seemed 
to him less crude; it had acquired somewhat of the 
wan, softened light falling through the glass roof He 
thought it accepted, all his friends pronounced * it to 
be a masterpiece, and went about saying that it would 
revolutionize the Salon. There was stupefaction and 
indignation when rumors announced a renewed refusal 
of the hanging committee. The premeditation could 
not be denied, it was a question of systematically 
strangling an original artist. After his first burst of 


A CATASTKOPHE AND A WEDDING. 


257 


passion, lie vented all his anger upon his work, which 
he stigmatized as false, dishonest and execrable. It 
was a well-deserved lesson, which he should remem- 
ber: ought he to have relapsed into that cellar-like 
studio light? Was he going to revert to the cooking 
of imaginary figures? When the picture came back, 
he took a knife and ripped it from top to bottom. 

And so the third year he obstinately toiled on a 
work of revolt. He wanted the blazing sun, that 
Paris sun, which, on certain days, turns the pavement 
to a white heat in the dazzling reflection of the 
frontages. Nowhere is it hotter; even people from 
burning climes mop their faces; you would say it was 
the soil of Africa beneath the heavily raining rays of 
a sky on fire. The subject he chose was a corner of 
the Place du Carrousel, at one o’clock in the after- 
noon, when the sun strikes vertically. A cab was 
jolting along, its driver half-asleep, its horse steam- 
ing wet, with drooping head, vague amid the throb- 
bing heat. The passers-by seemed intoxicated, as it 
were, the only exception being a young woman — rosy 
and gay, under her parasol, who was walking along 
with an easy queen-like step, as if the fiery element 
were her proper sphere. But what especially ren- 
dered this picture terrible was the new interpretation 
of the effects of light, the decomposition of the sun- 
rays very accurately observed, and which ran counter 
to all common visual habits, by emphasizing blues, 
yellows and reds where no one had been accustomed 
to see any. In the background the Tuileries van- 
ished in a golden shimmer; the paving stones bled, 
as it were ; the figures were only so many indications, 
sombre patches eaten into by the over vivid glare. 
This time the comrades, while still praising, looked 
embarrassed, all seized with the same apprehensions; 
such painting could only lead to martyrdom. He, 
amidst their praises, understood well enough the rup- 
16 


258 


A CATASTKOPHE AND A WEDDING. 


ture that was taking place, and when the hanging 
committee had once more closed the Salon against 
him, he painfully exclaimed, in a moment of lucid- 
ness. 

“All right; it’s an understood thing — I’ll die at 
the task I” 

However, although his obstinate courage seemed to 
increase, he gradually relapsed now and then into his 
former doubts, consumed by the struggle he sustained 
against nature. Every canvas that came back to him 
seemed bad to him; above all, incomplete, not realizing 
what he had aimed at. It was this impotence that 
exasperated him even more than the refusals of the 
hanging committee. No doubt he did not forgive the 
latter; his works, even in an embryo state, were a 
hundred times better than the mediocrities received. 
But what suffering at never being able to show him- 
self in all his strength, in the masterpiece that he 
couldn’t bring his genius to produce I There were 
always some superb bits. He felt satisfied with this, 
that one, and the other. Why, then, were there these 
abrupt voids? Why these inferior bits, not perceived 
while at work, but afterwards, utterly killing the pic- 
ture like ineffaceable defects? And he felt himself 
quite unable to make any corrections; at certain 
moments a wall rose up, an insuperable obstacle, beyond 
which he was forbidden to venture. If he touched 
up the bit a score of times, a score of times did he 
aggravate the evil; everything got muddled and became 
messy. 

He grew fidgety, failed to see clearly, his brush 
refused to obey him, and his will was really stricken 
with paralysis. Did his hands or his eyes cease to 
be his own, amid these progressive attacks of an old 
disorder that had already made him anxious? The 
crises grew more frequent; he once more began to 
spend horrible weeks, consuming himself, oscillating 


A CATASTROPHE AND A WEDDING. 


259 


constantly betwixt uncertainty and hope ; and his only 
support during these terrible hours, passed in a des- 
perate hand-to-hand struggle with the rebellious work 
on hand, was the consoling dream of the future mas- 
terpiece, the one he would at last be fully satisfied 
with, and in painting which his hands would show 
proper creative skill. By some ever-recurring phe- 
nomenon, his longing to create outstripped the quick- 
ness of his fingers; he never worked at one picture 
without conceiving the one that was to follow. Then 
all that remained to him was the hasty desire to rid 
himself of the work on which he was engaged, and 
which made him agonize, as it were; no doubt it 
wouldn’t be good for anything; he was still making 
fatal concessions, having recourse to trickery, to every- 
thing that an artist should banish from his conscience. 
But what he meant to do after that — ah I what he 
meant to do — he beheld it superb and heroic, above 
attack and indestructible. It was the everlasting mir- 
age that goads the courage ’of the condemned disciples 
of art, a falsehood full of tenderness and pity, without 
which production would become impossible to all 
those who die of their attempts to create life! 

In addition to these constantly renewed struggles 
with himself, material difficulties increased. Wasn’t it 
enough that he couldn’t give birth to what he felt 
existing within him? Must he also battle against 
everyday cares? Though he refused to admit it, 
painting from nature in the open air became impossi- 
ble when a picture was above a certain size. How 
could he settle himself in the streets amidst the 
crowd? — how obtain for each personage the necessary 
number of sittings? This sort of painting must evi- 
dently be confined to certain determined subjects, 
landscapes, small corners of the city, in which the 
figures are but so many silhouettes, painted in after- 
wards. There were also the thousand and one difficul- 


260 A CATASTROPHE AND A WEDDING. 

ties connected with the weather; the wind that carried 
the easel off, the rain that obliged one to interrupt 
one’s work. On such days Claude came home in a 
rage, shaking his fist at the sky, accusing nature of 
defending herself in order not to be taken and van- 
quished. He complained bitterly of not being rich; 
for his dream was to have a movable studio, a vehicle 
in Paris, a boat on the Seine, in both of which he 
would have lived like an artistic gipsy. But nothing 
came to his aid, everything conspired against his 
work. 

And Christine suffered with Claude. She had shared 
his hopes very bravely, brightening the studio with 
her housewifely activity; but now she sat down, dis- 
couraged, when she saw him powerless. At each 
picture refused she displayed a still deeper grief, hurt 
in her womanly self-love, taking that pride in success 
which all women have. The painter’s bitterness soured 
her also — she espoused his passions, identified herself 
with his tastes, defended his painting, which had 
become, as it were, part of herself, the one great concern 
of their lives, indeed the only important one hence- 
forth, the one from which she expected all her happi- 
ness. She understood well enough that this painting 
robbed her more and more of her lover each day, but 
the struggle between herself and art had not yet 
begun. She yielded, allowed herself to be carried 
away with him, so that they might be but one, one 
only in the self-same effort. From this partial abdica- 
tion there sprang, however, a sadness, a dread of what 
was in store for her later on. Every now and then a 
shudder chilled her to the very heart. She felt her- 
self grow old, while intense compassion upset her, an 
unreasoning longing to weep, which she satisfied in 
the gloomy studio for hours together, when she was 
alone there. 

At that period her heart expanded, as it were, and 


A CATASTROPHE AND A WEDDING. 


261 


a mother sprang from the loving woman. This mater- 
nity for her big artist-child was made up of that 
vague infinite pity which filled her with tenderness, 
of the illogical fits of weakness into which she saw 
him fall every hour, of the constant pardons she was 
obliged to grant him. He was beginning to make 
her unhappy — she no longer received from him aught 
but those matter-of-fact caresses flung like alms to the 
woman from whom one becomes detached; and how 
could she continue loving him when he freed himself 
from her arms, when a look of weariness overspread 
his features amidst the ardent embraces with which 
she still stifled him? How could she love him if not 
with that other affection of every moment, remaining 
in adoration before him, and unceasingly sacrificing 
herself? There was a gentle melancholy, after the 
secret griefs of the night, ‘ in being merely a mother 
until evening, in deriving a last enjoyment from her 
goodness, in trying to make him happy amid this life 
which now was spoilt. 

Little Jacques was the only one to suffer from this 
transfer of tenderness. She neglected him more; her 
flesh remained dumb for him, having only sprung into 
a feeling of maternity through love. It was the 
adored, desired man, who became her child, and the 
other poor little fellow only remained a simple testi- 
mony of their great passion of yore. As she had 
seen him grow up, and no longer require as many 
cares, she had begun to sacrifice him, without inten- 
tional harshness, but merely because she felt like 
that. At meal times she only gave him the inferior 
bits; the cosiest nook near the stove was not for his 
little chair; if the fear of an accident made her trem- 
ble now and then, the first cry, the first protecting 
movement was not for the helpless child. She unceas- 
ingly relegated him to the background, suppressed 
him. as it were: “Jacques,, be quiet; you tire your 


262 


A CATASTROPHE AND A WEDDING. 


father. Jacques, keep still; don’t you see that your 
father is at work?” 

The urchin suffered from being cooped up in Paris. 
He, who had had the whole of the country to roll 
about in, was stifled in the narrow space where he 
had to keep quiet. His rosy cheeks became pale, he 
grew up puny, serious, like a little man, with eyes 
which stared at things in wonder. He was five by 
now, and his head by a singular phenomenon had 
become disproportionately large, so to make his father 
say, “He has a great man’s skull!” But his intelli- 
gence seemed, on the contrary, to decrease in propor- 
tion as his skull became larger. Yery gentle and 
timid, the child became absorbed for hours, incapable 
of answering a question, his mind wandering. And 
when he emerged from this state of immobility he 
had mad fits of shouting and jumping about like a 
young gamboling animal giving way to instinct. At 
such times the warnings “to keep quiet” rained upon 
him, for the mother failed to understand these sudden 
outbursts, and she became uneasy at seeing the father 
grow irritated before his easel, and getting cross her- 
self, she hastily seated the little one in his corner 
again. Quieted all at once, with the startled shudder 
of a too abrupt awakening, the child dozed off again, 
his eyes wide open, so careless of enjoying life that 
his toys, corks, pictures, empty color-tubes dropped 
listlessly from his hands. She had already tried to 
teach him his alphabet, but he had cried protestingly, 
and they had decided to wait another year or two 
before sending him to school, where the masters 
would know how to make him learn. 

Christine at last began to grow frightened at the 
prospect of impending poverty. In Paris, with the 
child growing up, living was more expensive, and the 
end of each month became terrible, despite her efforts 
to save in every direction, ' They had nothing certain 


A CATASTROPHE AND A WEDDING. 


263 


but the thousand francs a year; and how could they 
live on fifty francs a month, which was all that was 
left to them after deducting the four hundred francs 
for the rent ? At first they had got out of embarrass- 
ment, thanks to the sale of a few pictures, Claude 
having found Gagni^re’s old amateur, one of those 
detested people of the middle-classes who possess the 
ardent souls of artists, despite the monomaniacal habits 
in which they wrap themselves up. This one, M. 
Hue, a retired official, was, unfortunately, not rich 
enough to be always buying; he could only bewail 
the purblindness of the public, which once more 
allowed a genius to die of starvation; for he himself, 
convinced, struck by grace at the first glance, had 
selected Claude’s crudest works, which he hung by the 
side of his Delacroix, predicting an equal fortune for 
them. The worst was that Papa Malgras had just 
retired after making his fortune. It was but a modest 
competence, after all, an income of about ten thousand 
francs, which he had decided to live upon in a little 
house at Bois Colombes, like the careful man he was. 

It was highly amusing to hear him speak of the 
famous Haudet with the disdain for the millions that 
this speculator turned over, “ millions that would some 
day fall upon his nose,” so he said. Claude, having 
casually met him, only succeeded in selling him a last 
picture, one of his academic sketches made at the 
Boutin studio, which the erstwhile dealer had not 
been able to behold afresh without feeling his old 
passion revive for it. So poverty was imminent; out- 
lets were closing instead of new ones being opened; 
disquieting rumors were beginning to circulate concern- 
ing this painter’s works constantly rejected at the Salon, 
and, besides, Claude’s style of art, so revolutionary 
and imperfect, in which the startled eye found nothing 
of admitted conventionality, would of itself have suf- 
ficed to drive away wealthy buyers. One evening. 


264 


A CATASTKOPHE AND A WEDDING. 


being unable to settle the bill at his color shop, the 
painter had exclaimed that he would live upon the 
capital of his income rather than lower himself to 
the degrading production of trade pictures. But Chris- 
tine had violently opposed this extreme measure; she 
would retrench still further; in short, she preferred 
anything to such madness, which would end by throw- 
ing them into the streets, without even bread to eat. 

After the rejection of Claude’s third picture, the 
summer that year was so wonderfully fine that the 
painter seemed to derive new strength from it. Not 
a cloud; but limpid light streaming upon the giant 
activity of Paris. He had resumed his peregrinations 
through the city once more, determined to find a 
masterstroke, as he expressed it, something enormous, 
something decisive, he did not exactly know what. 
September came, and still he had found nothing, mad 
for a week about one subject, then declaring that it 
was not the thing after all. His life was spent in 
constant excitement, on the watch, ever on the point 
of setting his hand on the realization of his dream, 
which always flew away. In reality, beneath his 
intractable realism the superstitions of a nervous woman 
were concealed; he believed in occult and complex 
influences; everything was to depend upon the view 
selected, luck or ill-luck. 

One afternoon, it was one of the last fine days of the 
season, Claude had taken Christine with him, leaving 
little Jacques in the charge of the doorkeeper, a kind 
old woman, as they were in the habit of doing when 
they wanted to go out together. It was a sudden whim 
to ramble about, a wish to revisit in her company the 
nooks beloved in other days, and behind this desire 
there was concealed the vague hope that she would 
bring him luck. And they thus went as far as the 
Pont Louis-Philippe, remained for a quarter of an 
hour on the Quai des Ormes, silent, leaning against 


A CATASTROPHE AND A WEDDING. 


265 


the parapet, and looking at the old Hotel du Martoy, 
on the other side of the Seine, where they had first 
loved each other. Then, still without saying a word, 
they went their former round, gone over so many times ; 
they started along the quays, under the plane trees, 
seeing the past rise up at every step. Everything 
was spread out before them again; the bridges with 
the arches opening upon the sheeny water; the Cite, 
enveloped in shade, above which rose the flavescent 
towers of Notre-Dame; the immense curve of the 
right bank flooded with sunlight^ and terminated by 
the indistinct silhouette of the Pavilion de Flore, 
together with the broad avenues, the monuments on 
both banks, and the life of the river, the floating 
wash-houses, the baths and the lighters. 

As of old, the orb in its decline followed them, 
seemingly rolling along the distant housetops, and 
acquiring a crescent shape as it appeared from behind 
the dome of the Institute. It was a dazzling sunset, 
they had never beheld a more magnificent one, a 
majestic descent amidst tiny cloudlets that changed 
into a purple network, between all the meshes of 
which a flood of gold escaped. But of the past that 
thus rose up there came to them nothing but an 
invincible sadness — the sensation of things constantly 
escaping them, the impossibility of returning up stream 
and living their life over again. These ancient stones 
remained cold, the constant current beneath the bridges, 
the water that had flowed onwards, seemed to have 
borne away something of their own selves, the delight 
of the first desire, the joyfulness of hope. Now that 
they belonged to each other, they no longer tasted the 
simple happiness of feeling the warm pressure of 
their arms as they strolled slowly along, enveloped, 
as it were, by the mighty vitality of Paris. 

On reaching the Pont des Saints-P^res, Claude, in 
sheer despair, stopped short. He had abandoned 


266 


A CATASTROPHE AND A WEDDING. 


Christine’s arm and had turned his face towards the 
point of the Cite. She, no doubt, felt the severance 
that was taking place and became very sad. Seeing 
that he lingered there obliviously, she wished to regain 
her hold upon him. 

“ My dear, let us go home ; it’s time. Jacques will 
be waiting for us, you know.” 

But he advanced half way along the bridge; she had 
to follow him. Once more he remained motionless 
with his eyes still fixed on the Cite, on this island, 
eternally riding at anchor, the cradle and heart of 
Paris where for centuries all the blood of her arteries 
has converged amid the constant growth of the 
faubourgs invading the plain. His face had become 
all aflame, his eyes sparkled, and at last he made a 
sweeping gesture: 

“Look! look!” 

In the immediate foreground beneath them was the 
Port of St. Nicolas, with the low shanties serving as 
offices for the inspectors of navigation, and the large 
paved river, bank sloping down, littered with piles of 
sand, barrels, and sacks, and edged with a row of 
lighters, still full, in which swarmed a population of 
lumpers and laborers at work beneath the gigantic 
arm of an iron crane. Then on -the other side of the 
river, above a cold swimming bath, resounding with 
the shouts of the last bathers of the season, the strips 
of gray linen that served as a roofing flapped in the 
wind. In the middle, the open stream flowed on in 
rippling, greenish wavelets tipped with white, blue 
and pink, here and there. And then there was the 
Pont des Arts, standing back, high above the water 
on its iron girders, light, like black lace work, ani- 
mated by the alternate motion of foot passengers, who 
looked like ants careering along over the narrow line 
of the horizontal plane. And below the Seine flowed 
on to the far distance ; you saw the old arches of the 


A CATASTROPHE AND A WEDDING. 


267 


Pont-Neuf, browny with stone-rust ; to the left a per- 
spective opened as far as the Isle of St. Louis, a 
receding mirror, of blinding foreshortening; and the 
other arm of the river turned sharply round, the lock 
gates of the Mint shut out the view with a bar of 
froth. Along the Pont-Neuf large yellow omnibuses, 
motley vehicles of all sorts, passed by with the 
mechanical regularity of so many children’s toys. 
The whole of the background was enframed there, in 
the perspective of the two banks ; on the right bank, 
the houses of the quays, partly hidden by a cluster 
of lofty trees, from behind which there emerged on the 
horizon a corner of the Hotel de Ville, and the square 
clock tower of St. Gervais, both looking as indistinct 
as if they had been situated far away in the suburbs ; 
on the left bank there was a wing of the Institute, 
the flat frontage of the Mint, and more trees ranged 
in single file. 

But the real centre of this immense picture, what 
rose up most prominently from the stream, and occu- 
pied the sky, was the Cit^, that prow of an antique 
vessel, ever burnished by the setting sun. Below, the 
poplars on the level ground that joins the two sec- 
tions of the Pont-Neuf hid the statue of Henri lY. 
with a dense mass of green foliage. Higher up, the 
sun set the two lines of frontages in contrast, wrap- 
ping the gray buildings of the Quai de I’Horloge in 
shade, and* illuming with a blaze the gilded buildings 
of the Quai des Orfevres, rows of irregular houses 
standing out so clearly that one distinguished the 
smallest details, the shops, the signboards, even to the 
curtains at the windows. Higher up, amid the jag- 
ged outlines of the chimney stacks, behind the slant- 
ing chess-boards of the smaller roofs, the pepper- 
castor turrets of the Palais de Justice and the gar- 
rets of the Prefecture displayed sheets of slate, cut 
athwart by a colossal advertisement painted in blue 


268 


A CATASTROPHE AND A WEDDING. 


upon a wall, and the gigantic letters of which, visible 
to all Paris, seemed like an efflorescence of the fever 
of modern times sprouting on the city’s forehead. 
Higher, higher still, betwixt the twin towers of 
Hotre-Dame, of the color of old gold, two arrows 
darted upwards, the spire of the cathedral itself, and 
to the left the spire of the Sainte Chapelle, both look- 
ing so elegantly slim that they seemed to quiver in 
the breeze — the haughty topmasts, as it were, of the 
ancient vessel, rising into the brightness of the open 

‘‘Are you coming, dear?” asked Christine, gently. 

Claude still did not listen to her, this, the heart of 
Paris, had taken full possession of him. The splendid 
evening seemed to widen the horizon. There were 
vivid light effects, clearly defined shadows, a brightness 
in the precision of each detail, a transparency in the 
air, throbbing with gladness. And the river life, the 
turmoil of the quays, all the people, coming in a 
flood down the streets, rolling over the bridges, arriv- 
ing from every side of this immense cauldron, steamed 
there in visible billows, with a quiver apparent in 
the sunlight. There was a slight breeze, a flight of 
small cloudlets crossing the paling azure sky, and one 
could hear huge and slow palpitation, the soul of Paris 
shed around its cradle. 

Then Christine, frightened at seeing Claude so 
absorbed, and she herself seized with a kind of relig- 
ous awe, took hold of his arm and dragged him away, 
as if she had felt that some great danger was threat- 
ening him. 

“Let us go home. You are doing yourself harm. 
I want to get back.” 

At her touch he started like some^one disturbed in 
sleep. Then turning his head to take a last look, he 
muttered : 

“Ah! heavens! Ah! heavens, how beautiful!” 


A CATASTEOPHE AND A WEDDING. 


269 


He allowed himself to be led away. But through 
the evening, first at dinner, afterwards beside the 
stove, and until he went to bed, he remained like one 
dazed, so preoccupied as not to utter half-a-dozen 
sentences; and Christine, failing to draw from him 
any answer to her questions, at last became silent 
also. She looked at him anxiously; was it the approach 
of some serious illness, had he breathed some bad air 
while standing midway across the bridge? His eyes 
stared vaguely into space, his face flushed as if with 
some inner straining. One would have thought it the 
mute travail of germination — some being springing to 
life within him. At first it seemed painful, con- 
fused, hampered by a thousand bonds. Then every- 
thing became disburdened; he ceased to toss about in 
his bed, and fell asleep with the heavy sleep of great 
fatigue. 

The next morning, immediately after breakfast, he 
made off, and she spent a very sorrowful day, for 
although she had become more easy in her mind on 
hearing him whistle some of his old southern tunes 
when he got up, she was worried by another matter 
which she had not mentioned to him, for fear of 
damping his spirits again. On that day they would 
for the first time lack everything; a whole week 
separated them from the day when they received 
th@ir small income, and she had spent her last copper 
that morning. She had nothing left for the evening, 
not even the wherewithal to buy a loaf. Whom could 
she apply to? How could she manage to hide the 
truth any longer from him when he came home hun- 
gry? She made up her mind to pledge the black 
silk dress which Madame Yanzade had formerly given 
her, but it was with a heavy heart; she trembled with 
fear and shame at the idea of the pawnshop, that 
familiar resort of the poor which she had never yet 
entered. She was tortured by such apprehension 


270 


A CATASTROPHE AND A WEDDING. 


about the future that from the ten francs which they 
lent her she only deducted enough to make a sorrel 
soup and a stew of potatoes. On coming out of the 
pawn-office, a meeting with some one she knew had 
given her the finishing stroke. 

As it happened, Claude came home very late, ges- 
ticulating merrily, his eyes very bright, excited seem- 
ingly by some secret joy; he was very hungry, and 
grumbled because the cloth was not laid. Then when 
he had sat down between Christine and little Jacques, 
he swallowed his soup and devoured a plateful of 
potatoes. 

“Is that all?” he asked, when he had finished. 
“You might as well have added a scrap of meat. 
Did you have to buy some boots again?” 

She stammered, not daring to tell him the truth, 
but hurt at heart by this injustice. He, however, 
went on chaffing her about the coppers she juggled 
away to buy herself things with; and getting more 
and more excited, amid the egotism of the sensations 
which he seemingly wished to keep to himself, he 
suddenly flew out at Jacques: 

“Hold your noise, you confounded brat! — you drive 
one mad.” 

The child, forgetting all about his dinner, had been 
tapping the edge of his plate with his spoon, his eyes 
full of mirth, looking delighted at this music. 

“Jacques, be quiet,” scoldingly said the mother, in 
her turn. “ Let your father have his dinner in 
peace.” 

And the little one, abashed, becoming very quiet at 
once, relapsed into gloomy stillness, with his lustre- 
less eyes fixed on his potatoes, which he did not eat, 
however. 

Claude made a show of stuffing himself with cheese, 
while Christine, quite grieved, offered to fetch some 
cold meat from the ham and beef shop ; but he 


A CATASTROPHE AND A WEDDING. 


271 


declined, and prevented her going by words that 
pained her still more. Then, when the table was 
cleared, and they were all seated round the lamp for 
the evening, she sewing, the little one turning over a 
picture-book in silence, Claude kept drumming on the 
table, his mind wandering back to the spot whence 
he had come. Suddenly he rose up, sat down again, 
holding a sheet of paper and a pencil, and began 
sketching rapidly, in the vivid circle of light that fell 
from under the lamp-shade. And such was his long- 
ing to give outward expression to the tumultuous 
ideas beating against his skull that very soon this 
sketch did not suffice for his relief. On the contrary, 
it goaded him on, and the commotion with which he 
was brimming over soon rose to his lips. He finished 
up hy unburthening his mind in a flood of words. 
He would have shouted to the walls; and he addres- 
sed himself to his wife because she happened to be 
there. 

“ Look, that’s what we saw yesterday. It’s magnifi- 
cent. I spent three hours there to-day. I’ve got hold 
of what I want — something wonderful, something that’ll 
knock everything else over. Just look! I stationed 
myself under the bridge ; in the immediate foreground 
I have the Port of St. Nicolas, with its crane, its 
lighters which are being unloaded, its crowd of laborers. 
Do you see the idea — it’s Paris at work — all these 
brawny fellows displaying their bare arms and chests? 
Then on the other side I have the swimming-baths — 
Paris at play, and some skiff there, no doubt, to occupy 
the centre of the composition; but of that I am not 
certain as yet. I must feel my way. As a matter of 
course, the Seine in the middle, broad, immense.^’ 

While talking, he kept on indicating the outlines 
vigorously with his pencil, thickening his hurried 
strokes over and over again, and tearing the paper in 
his very energy. She, in order to please him, bent 


272 


A CATASTKOPHE AND A WEDDING. 


over the sketch, pretending to be very much interested 
in his explanations. But the sketch was getting mud- 
dled with such a labyrinth of lines, charged with such 
a confusion of summary details, that she failed to dis- 
tinguish anything. 

“You are following me, aren’t you?” 

“Yes, yes, very beautiful indeed.” 

“Then I have the background, the two arms of the 
river with their quays, the Citd rising up triumph- 
antly in the centre and standing out against the sky. 
Ah, that background, what a marvel! One sees it 
every day, one passes before it without stopping; but 
it takes hold of one all the same; one’s admiration 
accumulates, and one fine afternoon it appears. Noth- 
ing in the world is more grand; it is Paris herself, 
glorious in the sunlight — I say, what a fool I was not 
to think of it before! How many times I looked at 
it without seeing. And I had to drop there after that 
ramble along the quays. And, do you remember, 
there is a dash of shadow on that side; while here 
the sunrays fall quite straight. The towers are over 
there; the spire of the Saint-Chapelle tap'Crs upward, 
as slim as a needle pointing to the sky. No, it’s more 
to the right. Wait, I’ll show you.” 

He began again, never wearied, but constantly 
retouching the sketch, and adding innumerable little 
characteristic details which his painter’s eye had 
noticed; here was the red signboard of a distant shop 
that vibrated in the light; closer by a greenish bit 
of the Seine, on the surface of which some large 
patches of oil seemed to float; and then there was the 
delicate tone of a tree, the gamut of grays of the 
house frontages, and the luminious cast of the sky. 
She complaisantly approved of all he said and tried 
to look delighted. 

But Jacques once again forgot what he had been 
told. After remaining silent for a long while before 


A CATASTROPHE AND A WEDDING. 273 

his book, absorbed in the contemplation of a wood- 
cut depicting a black cat, he began to hum some 
words of his own composition : “ Oh, you pretty cat ; 

oh, you ugly cat; oh, you pretty, ugly cat;” and so 
on, ad infinitum, in the same lugubrious manner. 

Claude, made fidgety by the buzzing noise, did not 
at first understand what was enervating him while he 
spoke. But after a time the child’s harassing phrase 
fell clearly upon his ear. 

“When you’ve done worrying us with your cat!” 
he shouted furiously. 

“Plold your tongue, Jacques, when your father is 
talking!” repeated Christine. 

“Upon my word! I do believe he is becoming an 
idiot. Just look at his head, if it isn’t like an idiot’s. 
It’s dreadful. Just say, what do you mean by your 
pretty and ugly cat?” 

The little fellow, turning pale and wagging hsi dis- 
proportionately large head, looked stupid, and said: 
“Don’t know.” 

And as his father and mother gazed at each other 
with a discouraged air, he rested his cheek on the open 
picture-book, and remained like that, neither stirring 
nor speaking, but with his eyes wide open. 

It was getting late; Christine wanted to put him to 
bed, but Claude had already resumed his explanations. 
He now announced to her that, the very next morn- 
ing, he should go and take a sketch on the spot, 
simply in order to fix his ideas. And, as he went on, 
he began to talk of buying a small camp easel, a 
thing upon which he had set his heart for months. 
He kept harping upon the subject, and spoke about 
money matters. She became embarrassed, and ended 
by telling him everything — the last copper spent that 
morning ; the silk dress pledged in order to dine that 
evening. Thereupon he became very remorseful and 
affectionate; he kissed her and asked her forgiveness 
17 


274 


A CATASTROPHE AND A WEDDING. 


for having complained about the dinner. She would 
excuse him, surely; he would have killed father and 
mother, as he kept on repeating, when that confounded 
painting got hold of him. As for the pawnshop, it 
made him laugh ; he defied poverty. 

“I tell you that we are all right,” he exclaimed. 
“ That picture means success.” 

She kept silent, thinking about her meeting of the 
morning, which she wished to hide from him ; but 
the words rose invincibly to her lips without appa- 
rent cause or transition, in the kind of torpor that had 
come over her. 

“Madame Vanzade is dead,” she said. 

He looked surprised. Ah ! really ? How did she, 
Christine, know of it? 

“I met the old man-servant. Oh, he’s a gentleman 
by now, looking very sprightly, in spite of his sev- 
enty years. I did not know him again. It was he 
who spoke to me. Yes, she died six weeks ago. 
Pier millions have gone to the various charities, with 
the exception of an annuity to the old servants, upon 
which they are living, snugly, like people of the lower 
middle-classes.” 

He looked at her, and murmured at last in a sad- 
dened voice : “ My poor Christine, you are regretting 

now, aren’t you? She would have given you a mar- 
riage portion, found you a husband; I told you so 
in days gone by. She would, perhaps, have left you 
all her money, and you wouldn’t be starving with a 
crazy fellow like myself.” 

She then seemed to wake from her dream. She 
violently drew her chair to his, caught hold of one 
of his arms and nestled against him, as if her whole 
being protested. 

“What are you saying? Ohl no; oh I no. It would 
have been shameful to have thought of her money. 
I would confess it to you, and you know that I never 


A CATASTROPHE AND A WEDDING. 


275 


tell lies, but I myself don’t know wbat came over me 
when I heard the news. I felt upset, sad, so sad that 
I imagined that everything was over for me. It was 
no doubt remorse; yes, remorse at having deserted her 
so brutally, poor invalid that she was, the good old 
soul who called me her daughter. I behaved very 
badly, and it won’t bring me luck. Ah! don’t say 
‘JSTo,’ I feel it well enough, henceforth there’s an end 
to everything for me.” 

And she wept, choked by these confused regrets, 
the. significance of which she failed to realize, by this 
one feeling that her life was spoilt, that she had noth- 
ing more but unhappiness to look forward to. 

“Come, wipe your eyes,” he said, becoming affec- 
tionate once more. “Is it possible that you, who were 
never nervous, can conjure up chimeras, and worry 
yourself in this way? Dash it all, we shall get out of 
our difficulties! First of all, you know that it was 
through you that I found the subject for my picture. 
There can not be much of a curse upon you, since 
you bring luck.” 

He laughed, and she shook her head, seeing well 
enough that he wanted to make her smile. She was 
suffering on account of his picture already; for, on 
the bridge, he had completely forgotten her, as if she 
had ceased to belong to him! and, since the night 
before, she had realized that he was farther and farther 
removed from her, in a world to which she could not 
ascend. But she allowed him to soothe her, and they 
exchanged one of their kisses of yore, before rising 
from the table to retire to rest. 

Little Jacques had heard nothing. Benumbed by 
his stillness, he had fallen asleep, with his cheek on 
his picture-book ; and the disproportionately large head 
of this defective offspring of genius, so heavy at times 
that it bent his neck, looked pale in the lamplight. 


276 


A CATASTEOPHE AND A WEDDING. 


When his mother put him to bed he did not even 
open his eyes. 

It was only at that period that Claude had the 
idea of marrying Christine. Though yielding to the 
advice of Sandoz, who expressed his surprise at the 
prolongation of this irregular situation, not justified 
by circumstances, he especially gave way to a feeling 
of pity, to a desire to show himself kind to her, and 
to win forgiveness for his delinquencies. He had seen 
her so sad of late, so uneasy at the future, that he 
did not know how to revive her spirits. He himself 
was growing sour, and relapsed into his former fits 
of anger, treating her, at times, like a servant, to whom 
one flings a week’s notice. Being his lawful wife, she 
would, no doubt, feel herself more in her rightful 
home, and would suffer less from his rough behavior. 
She herself, for that matter, had never again spoken 
of marriage. She seemed to care nothing for earthly 
things, but entirely reposed upon him; however, he 
understood well enough that it grieved her not to be 
able to visit at Sandoz’s; and, besides, they no longer 
lived amid the freedom and solitude of the country; 
they were in Paris, with its thousand and one petty 
spites of the neighbors, enforced relations, everything 
that is calculated to wound a woman. In reality, he 
had nothing against marriage save his old prejudices, 
those of an artist taking life as he lists. As he was 
never to leave her, why not afford her this pleasure? 
And, in fact, when he spoke to her about it, she gave 
a loud cry and threw her arms round his neck, sur- 
prised at experiencing so great an emotion. During a 
whole week, it made her feel thoroughly happy. Then 
her joy subsided long before the ceremony. 

Moreover, Claude did not hurry with any of the 
formalities, and they had to wait a long while for the 
necessary papers. He continued getting the sketches 
for his picture together, and she, like himself, did not 


A CATASTROPHE AND A WEDDING. 


277 


seem in the least impatient. What was the good! It 
would assuredly make no difference in their life. They 
had decided to be married merely at the municipal 
offices, not in view of displaying any contempt for 
religion, but to get the affair over quickly and simply. 
It would suffice. The question of witnesses embar- 
rassed them for a moment. As she was absolutely 
unacquainted with any one, he selected Sandoz and 
Mahoudeau for her. For a moment, he had thought 
of replacing the latter by Dubuche, but he never saw 
the architect now, and he feared to compromise him. 
He, Claude, would be content with Jory and Gagni6re. 
In that way the affair would pass off* among friends, 
and no one would talk of it. 

Several weeks had gone by ; they were in December, 
and the weather was terribly cold. On the day before 
the wedding, although they had barely thirty -five 
francs left them, they agreed that they could not send 
their witnesses away with a mere shake of the hand, 
and rather than have a lot of trouble in the studio, 
they decided to off'er them breakfast at a small res- 
taurant on the Boulevard de Clichy, after which they 
would each go home. 

In the morning, while Christine was tacking a 
collar to a gray linsey gown, which, with the coquetry 
of woman, she had made for the occasion, Claude, 
already wearing his frock-coat and kicking his heels 
impatiently, had the idea of going to fetch Mahoudeau 
on the pretext that the latter was quite capable of 
forgetting all about the appointment. Since autumn, 
the sculptor had been living at Montmartre, in a 
small studio in the Kue des Tilleuls. He had moved 
in eonsequence of a series of dramas that had upset 
him. First of all, he had been turned out of the 
fruiterer’s shop in the Eue du Cherche-Midi for not 
paying the rent; then there had been a definite rup- 
ture with Chaine, who, in despair of not being able 


278 


A CATASTKOPHE AND A WEDDING. 


to live by bis brush, bad rusbed into a commercial 
speculation; repairing to all tbe fairs round about 
Paris as tbe manager of a kind of “fortune’s wheel, ” 
belonging to a widow; last of all, bad come tbe sudden 
flight of Mathilde, and tbe herbalist’s business closed out. 
So now Maboudeau lived all by himself in greater 
poverty than before, only eating when he secured tbe 
job of scraping some architectural ornaments, or of 
preparing tbe work of a more prosperous fellow- 
sculptor. 

“I am going to fetch him, do you hear?” repeated 
Claude to Christine. “We still have a couple of hours 
before us. And, if the others come, make them wait. 
We’ll go to the municipal offices altogether.” 

Once outside, Claude hurried along in the nipping cold 
that loaded his moustache with icicles. Mahoudeau’s 
studio was at the end of a conglomeration of tene- 
ments — “ rents,” so to say — and he had to cross a num- 
ber of small gardens, white with rime frost, and having 
the bleak, stiff sadness of cemeteries. He could dis- 
tinguish the place from afar on account of the colossal 
plaster statue of the “Yintaging Girl,” the former suc- 
cessful exhibit of the Salon, for which there had not 
been space on the narrow ground-floor. It was rot- 
ting away out there like a lot of rubbish shot from a 
cart, a lamentable picture, weather-bitten, its features 
riddled by the large, grimy tears of the rain. The 
key was in the door, so Claude went in. 

“Hallo! you have come to fetch me,” said Mahou- 
deau, surprised. “I’ve only got my hat to put on. 
But wait a bit, I was asking myself whether it wouldn’t 
be better to light a little fire. I am uneasy about 
my woman there.” 

Some water in a bucket was ice-bound. It froze 
as hard inside the studio as out of doors, for, having 
been penniless for a week, he had eked out a little 
coal remaining to him, only lighting the stove for an 


A CATASTROPHE AND A WEDDING. 


279 


hour or two of a morning. This studio was a kind of 
tragic cavern, compared with which the shop of former 
days evoked reminiscences of snug comfort, so tomb- 
like a chill did the creviced ceiling and the bare walls 
exude. In the corners of the room, some other stat- 
ues, of less bulky dimensions, plaster figures which had 
been modelled with passion and exhibited, and which 
had then come back there for want of buyers, seemed 
to be shivering with their noses turned to the wall, 
forming a melancholy row of cripples, some of them 
already damaged, showing mere stumps of arms, and all 
dust-begrimed, clay-bespattered; and under the eyes of 
the artist who had given them his heart’s blood these 
wretched things dragged out years of agony, preserved 
at first with jealous care, despite the want of room, and 
then lapsing into the grotesque horror of all lifeless 
things, until the day when, taking up a mallet, he him- 
self finished them off, crushing them into mere lumps 
of plaster, so as to be rid of them. 

“You say we have got two hours, eh?” resumed 
Mahoudeau. “Well, I’ll just light a bit of fire; it 
will be the wiser, perhaps.” 

Then while lighting the stove, he began bewailing 
his fate in an angry voice. What a dog’s life a 
sculptor’s was! The most bungling stonemason was 
better off. A figure, which the Government bought 
for three thousand francs, cost well nigh two 
thousand with its model, clay, marble or bronze, all 
sorts of expenses, and for all that it remained buried in 
some administrative cellar on the pretext that there was 
no room for it. The niches of the public buildings 
remained empty, pedestals were awaiting statues in 
the public gardens. Never mind, there was never any 
room ! And there were no possible commissions from 
private people, at best a few busts, and at very rare 
intervals a memorial statue, subscribed for by the 
public and hurriedly executed at reduced terms. Sculp- 


280 


A CATASTROPHE AND A WEDDING. 


ture was the noblest of arts, the most manly, yes, but 
the one which led the most surely to death by starva- 
tion. 

“Is your machine progressing?” asked Claude. 

“Without this confounded cold, it would be fin- 
ished,” answered Mahoudeau. “I’ll show it you.” 

He rose from his knees after listening to the snort- 
ing of the stove. In the middle of the studio, on a 
packing-case, strengthened by cross-pieces, stood a 
statue swathed in linen wraps which were frozen hard, 
with folds of inductile rigidity, and which draped the 
figure with the whiteness of a shroud. It was his 
old dream at last, not realized until now from want 
of means — an upright figure, the girl bathing, of 
which more than a dozen small models had been 
knocking about his place for years. In a moment, 
impatient of revolt, he had himself manufactured trusses 
and stays out of broom -handles, dispensing with the 
necessary iron- work in the hope that the wood would 
prove sufficiently solid. From time to time he shook 
the figure to try it; but it had not budged as yet. 

“The devil!” he muttered; “some warmth will do 
her good. The wraps seem glued on to her — a regu- 
lar breastplate.” 

The linen was crackling between his fingers, and 
breaking into splinters of ice. He was obliged to 
wait until the heat had thawed it a bit, and then 
with great care he stripped the figure, baring the head 
first, then the bosom, then the hips, pleased to find 
everything intact, and smiling like a lover at a woman 
fondly adored. 

“Well, what do you think of it?” 

Claude, who had only previously seen a little rough 
model of it, nodded his head, in order not to have to 
answer at once. Decidedly this good Mahoudeau was 
turning traitor, and drifting towards gracefulness, in 
spite of himself, with the pretty things that sprang 


A CATASTROPHE AND A WEDDING. 


281 


from under his big fingers, former stone-cutter that 
he was. Since his colossal “Vintaging Girl,’’ he had 
gone on reducing and reducing his productions with- 
out appearing to be aware of it himself, always ready 
to stick out ferociously for the gigantic, which agreed 
with his temperament, but yielding to the partiality 
of his eyes for sweetness and gracefulness. The gigan- 
tic bosoms became girlish; the thighs elongated into 
elegant spindles; it was real nature that broke at last 
through inflated ambition. Exaggerated still, his “Girl 
Bathing” was already possessed of great charm, with 
her quivering shoulders, her tightly -crossed arms. 

“Well, you don’t like it?” he asked, looking 
annoyed. 

“Oh, yes! I do. I think you are right to tone 
down a bit, seeing that you feel like it. You’ll have 
a great success with this. Yes, it’s evident it will 
please people very much.” 

Mahoudeau, whom such praises would once have 
thrown into consternation, seemed delighted. He 
explained that he wished to conquer public opinion 
without relinquishing a tithe of his convictions. 

“Ah! dash it! it takes a weight off my mind to find 
you pleased, for I should have destroyed it if you 
had told me to do so, I give you my word! Another 
fortnight’s work, and I’ll sell my skin to no matter 
whom in order to pay the moulder. I say, I shall 
have a fine show at the Salon, perhaps get a medal.” 

He laughed, waved his arms about, and then break- 
ing off: 

“As we are not in a hurry, sit down a bit. I’m 
waiting for the wraps to become quite thawed.” 

The stove was beginning to get red hot, diffusing 
great heat. The figure, placed close by, seemed to 
revive under the warm breath that now crept upward 
along her spine from the shins to the nape. And the 
two friends who were now seated continued looking 


282 


A CATASTEOPHE AND A WEDDING. 


the figure full in the face, chatting about it, noting 
each detail, pausing to examine each part of the 
body. The sculptor especially was growing excited 
in his delight, and from afar made a gesture of caress- 
ing his work. 

At that moment Claude, who was looking at the 
figure, fancied that he experienced some hallucination. 
The figure was moving; a quiver like the ripple of a 
wavelet had crossed her, the left hip had become 
straightened, as it were, as if the right leg were about 
to step out. 

“And the smooth surface,” Mahoudeau went on, 
without noticing anything. “Ah, my boy, I took 
great pains over that! The skin thereabouts is like 
satin, old man.” 

By degrees the whole statue was becoming animated. 
And suddenly the head drooped forward, and the fig- 
ure fell like a living being with tlie wild anguish, the 
grief-inspired spring of a woman flinging herself down. 

Claude understood at last, when Mahoudeau uttered 
a terrible cry. 

“By heavens, it’s breaking to pieces; she is coming 
down 1 ” 

The clay, in thawing, had snapped the wood of the 
trusses which had lacked strength. There came a noise 
of cracking, you seemed to hear bones splitting. And 
Mahoudeau, with the same passionate gesture with 
which he had caressed the figure from afar, working 
himself into a fever, opened both his arms, at the risk 
of being killed beneath it. For a moment it swayed 
to and fro, and then came down with one crash on its 
face, broken in twain at the ankles, leaving its feet 
sticking to the boards. 

Claude had jumped up to hold him back. 

“Dash it! you’ll be smashed!” 

But dreading to see it finish itself off on the floor, 
Mahoudeau remained with hands outstretched. And 


A CATASTKOPHE AND A WEDDING. 283 

the girl seemed to fling herself on his neck. He caught 
her in his arms, winding them tightly round this huge 
figure, which seemed animated as in the first awaken- 
ing of the flesh. The shock was so violent that he 
was carried oft’ his legs and thrown over, as far back 
as the wall; and, without relaxing his hold on the 
girl’s trunk, he remained as if stunned, lying beside 
her. 

“Ah I confound it I” repeated Claude, furiously, believ- 
ing that his friend was dead. 

With great difficulty Mahoudeau rose to his knees, 
and burst into violent sobs. He had only damaged his 
face in the fall. Some blood dribbled along one of his 
cheeks, mingling with his tears. 

“Ah ! curse poverty I ” he said. “ It’s enough to make 
a fellow drown himself not to be able to buy a couple 
of rods. And there she is, there she is.” 

His sobs grew louder; they became an agonizing 
wail, the painful shrieking of a lover before the muti- 
lated corpse of his affections. With unsteady hands 
he touched the limbs lying in confusion around him; 
the head, the torso, the arms that had snapped in 
twain; above aught else the bosom, now caved in; this 
bosom, flattened, as if it had been operated upon for 
some terrible disease, suft’ocated him, and he unceas- 
ingly returned to it, probing the sore, trying to find 
the gash by which life had fled, and his tears, which 
were mingled with blood, flowed freely, staining the 
statue’s wounds with red. 

“Do help me,” he gasped. “One can’t leave her 
like this.” 

Claude was overcome also, and his own eyes grew 
moist from a feeling of artistic fraternity. He hastened 
to his comrade’s side, but the sculptor, after having 
claimed his assistance, persisted in picking up the 
remains by himself, as if dreading the rough handling 
of any one else. He slowly crawled about on his 


284 : 


A CATASTROPHE AND A WEDDING. 


knees, took up tlie fragments one by one, laid them 
down and put them together on a board. The figure 
soon lay there in its entirety, like one of those girls' 
who, committing suicide from love, are shattered by 
falling from the top of some monument, and are put 
together again, looking both grotesque and lamentable, 
to be transported to the Morgue. Mahoudeau, seated 
on the floor before his figure, did not take his eyes 
from it, but became absorbed in this heart-rending con- 
templation. However, his sobs subsided, and at last 
he said, with a long-drawn sigh: “I’ll model her lying 
down! There’s no other way! Ah, my poor old woman, 
I had such trouble to set her on her legs, and I 
thought her so grand like that.” 

But all at once Claude grew uneasy. What about 
his wedding? Mahoudeau must change his clothes. 
As he had no other frock-coat than the one he was 
wearing, he was obliged to make a jacket do. Then 
when the figure was covered once more with linen 
wraps, like a corpse, over which a sheet has been pulled 
up, they both started off at a run. The stove was 
roaring away, the thaw filled the whole studio with 
water, and the old dust-begrimed plaster casts w'ere 
streaming with flush. 

When they reached the Kue de Douai there w'as no 
one there but little Jacques, in charge of the door- 
keeper. Christine, tired of waiting, had just started 
off with the three others, thinking that there had been 
some mistake; that Claude might have told her that 
he would go straight to the municipal offices with 
Mahoudeau. The pair fell into a sharp trot, but only 
overtook Christine and the comrades in the Eue Drouot 
in front of the municipal edifice. They all went up- 
stairs together, and met with a very cool reception 
from the usher on duty, on account of their being late. 
The wedding was got over in a few minutes, in a per- 
fectly empty room. The mayor mumbled on, and the 


A CATASTEOPHE AND A WEDDING. 


285 


bride and bridegroom uttered the binding “Yes” in a 
curt voice, while their witnesses were marvelling at 
the bad taste of the appointments of the room. Once 
outside, Claude took Christine’s arm again, and that 
was all. 

It was pleasant walking in the clear frosty weather. 
The party quietly walked back on foot, and climbed the 
Eue des Martyrs to reach the restaurant on the Boule- 
vard de Clichy. A small private room had been 
engaged; the breakfast was a very cordial affair, and 
not a word was said about the simple formality that 
had just been gone through; other subjects were spoken 
of all the while, like at one of their customary friendly 
gatherings. 

It was thus that Christine, very affected in reality 
despite her pretended indifference, heard her husband 
and his friends excite themselves for three mortal 
hours about Mahoudeau’s statue. Since the others had 
been made acquainted with the story, they kept harp- 
ing on every particular. Sandoz thought the whole 
thing very wonderful; Jory and Gagni^re discussed the 
strength of stays and trusses; the former mainly con- 
cerned about the monetary loss involved, the other 
demonstrating with a chair that the statue might 
have been kept up. As for Mahoudeau, still very 
shaky, and growing dazed, he complained of a stiff- 
ness which he had not felt before; his limbs began to 
hurt him, he had strained his muscles and bruised 
his skin as if he had been caught in the embrace of 
a stone siren. Christine washed the scratch on his 
cheek, which had begun to bleed again, and it seemed 
to her that this statue of the mutilated woman was 
sitting down at table with them, that it was she alone 
who was of any importance that day; that she alone 
excited Claude, whose narrative, repeated a score of 
times, was full of endless particulars about the emo- 


286 


A CATASTROPHE AND A WEDDING. 


tion he had felt on seeing that piece of clay shattered 
at his feet. 

However, at the dessert there was a diversion, for 
Gagni^re all at once said to Jory: 

“By the way, I saw you with Mathilde the day 
before yesterday. Yes, yes, in the Eue Dauphine.” 

Jory, who had turned very red, tried to deny it, but • 
his nose quivered, his mouth became contracted, and 
he began to snigger stupidly. 

“Oh, a mere accidental meeting — ^honor bright! I 
don’t know where she hangs out, or I should have 
told you.” 

“What! is it you who are hiding her?” exclaimed 
Mahoudeau. “Well, you may keep her. Nobody wants 
to have her back again.” 

The truth was that Jory, throwing to the winds all 
his habits of prudence and parsimony, had cloistered 
Mathilde in a small room. 

“After all, every man takes his pleasures where he 
finds them,” said Sandoz, full of philosophical tol- 
erance. 

“That’s true enough,” replied the other quietly, 
lighting a cigar. 

They still lingered at table, and night was falling 
when they saw Mahoudeau, who wanted to go to bed, 
to his own door. And Claude and Christine, on reach- 
ing home, after taking Jacques from the doorkeeper, 
found the studio quite chilly, wrapped in such dense 
gloom that they had to grope about for several min- 
utes before they were able to light the lamp. They 
had also to light the stove again, and it struck seven 
o’clock before they were able to draw breath at their 
ease. They were not hungry, so they merely finished 
the remains of some boiled beef, mainly by way of 
encouraging the child to eat his soup; and when they 
had put him to bed, they settled themselves with the 
lamp betwixt them, as was their habit every evening. 


A CATASTROPHE AND A WEDDING. 


287 


However, Cliristine had not put out any work, she 
felt too moved to sew. She sat there, her hands 
resting idly on the table, looking at Claude, who on 
his side had at once become absorbed in a sketch, a 
bit of his picture, some workmen of the Port Saint 
Nicolas, unloading plaster. An invincible dreaminess 
came over her, recollections and regrets passed through 
the depths of her expressionless eyes; and by degrees 
a growing sadness, a great mute grief seemingly took 
possession of her, amid this indifference, this bound- 
less solitude into which she was drifting, although so 
near to him. True, he was always there, on the 
other side of the table, but how far away she felt him 
to be; he was yonder before that point of the Citd, 
and still farther in the infinite inaccessible regions of 
art; so far, indeed, that she would now never be able 
to join him! She had several times tried to start a 
conversation, but without eliciting any answer from 
him. The hours went by, she grew weary and numb 
with doing nothing, and she ended by taking out her 
purse and counting her money. 

“ Do you know how much we have to start on our 
married life with?” 

Claude did not even raise his head. 

“We’ve nine sous. Ah! talk of poverty!” 

He shrugged his shoulders, and finally growled: 
“We shall be rich some day; don’t you fret.” 

And the silence was renewed, she did not even 
attempt to break it, but gazed at her nine coppers 
laid in a row upon the table. It struck midnight; 
she shivered, sick with waiting and cold. 

“Let’s retire, dear,” she murmured; “ I am dead tired.” 

He was working away like mad; and did not even 
hear her. 

“I say, the fire’s gone out; we shall make ourselves 
ill.” 


288 


A CATASTROPHE AND A WEDDING. 


The imploring voice penetrated him at last, and 
made him start with sudden exasperation. 

“Well, go to bed if you like! You can see very 
well that I want to finish something!” 

She remained there for another minute, amazed by 
this sudden anger, her face twitching with sorrow. 
Then, feeling that he would rather be without her, 
that the very presence of a woman doing nothing 
turned him out of his mind, she rose from the table 
and went to bed, leaving the door wide open. Half- 
an-hour, three-quarters went by, nothing stirred, not a 
sound came from her room ; but she was not asleep, 
she had merely stretched herself on her back, her 
eyes staring into the gloom ; and she timidly ventured 
upon a last appeal, from the depths of the dark 
alcove. 

“My dear, I am waiting for you. Come, dear.” 

She only got an oath in reply. And nothing stirred 
after that ; she had, perhaps, • dozed off. The icy 
chill in the studio grew more intense; the wick of 
the lamp was carbonizing and burning red, while he, 
bending over his sketch, did not seem to be conscious 
of the slowly passing minutes. 

At two o’clock, however, he rose up, furious at the 
lamp going out for lack of oil. He only had time to 
take it into the other room, so as not to have to 
undress in the dark. But his displeasure still further 
increased on seeing Christine stretched on her back, 
her eyes wide open. 

“What! you are not asleep?” 

“Ho, I don’t feel sleepy.” 

“Oh! I know that’s a reproach. I have told you 
a hundred times how it vexes me to have you lay 
awake for me.” 

She was choking. She sobbed violently. 

“Come, what’s the matter with you? I’ve said 
nothing to you. Come, darling, what’s the matter? 


A CATASTROPHE AND A WEDDING. 


289 


Come, darling ; we don’t know each other merely since 
yesterday. Yes, yes, you had arranged it all in your 
little mind. You wanted to be a bride, didn’t you? 
Come, don’t cry any more. You know very well that 
I’m not evil-hearted.” 

Never more would they be all in all to each other; 
something irreparable had taken place, something had 
snapped, there was a void between them. This for- 
mality of marriage seemed to have killed love. 

18 


290 


THE DEAD CHILD/ 


CHAPTEK IX. 


“the dead child.” 


S Claude could hot paint his huge picture in 



the small studio of the Eue de Douai, lie made 


up his mind to rent some shed, that would be spacious 
enough, elsewhere; and strolling one day on the heights 
of Montmartre, he found his affair half way down the 
slope of the Kue Tourlaque, the street that descends 
abruptly behind the cemetery, and whence you over- 
look Clichy as far as the marshes of Gennevilliers. 
It was the old drying shed of a dyer, a shanty fifteen 
metres long by ten wide, the boards and plaster of 
which were open to the winds from the four points 
of the compass. It was let to him for three hundred 
francs. Summer was at hand; he would soon work 
off* his picture and then give notice. 

This settled, feverish with work and hope, he decided 
to go to all the necessary expenses; as fortune was 
certain to come in the end, why trammel its advent 
by unnecessary scruples? Taking advantage of his 
right, he broke in upon the principal of his income, 
and soon grew accustomed to spend money without 
counting. At first he kept the thing from Christine, 
for she had already twice stopped him from doing so; 
and when he was at last obliged to tell her, she also, 
after a week of reproaches and apprehension, fell in 
with it, happy at the comfort in which she lived, and 
yielding to the pleasure of always having some money 
in her purse. Then came a few years of cosy abandon- 
ment. 


THE DEAD CHILD.’ 


291 


Claude soon became altogether absorbed in his pic- 
ture. He had furnished the vast studio in a very 
summary style: a few chairs, the old couch from the 
Quai de Bourbon, a deal table bought for five francs, 
second-hand. In the practice of his art he was 
entirely devoid of that vanity which delights in 
luxurious surroundings. The only real expense he 
went to was that of buying some steps on casters, 
with a platform and a movable footboard. After 
that he busied himself about his canvas, which he 
wished to be eight mtoes in length and five in height. 
He insisted upon preparing it himself; ordered the 
framework and bought the seamless canvas, which he 
and a couple of friends had all the work in the world 
to stretch properly by means of pincers. He merely 
coated it with ceruse, laid on with a palette knife, 
refusing to size it previously, in order that it might 
remain absorbent, by which plan he declared that the 
painting would be bright and solid. An easel was 
not to be thought of. It would not have been possi- 
ble to manoeuvre a canvas of such dimensions on it. 
So he invented a system of ropes and beams, which 
held it against the wall in a slightly slanting posi- 
tion, in a cheerful light. And backwards and for- 
wards in front of the vast white surface, there rolled 
the steps looking like a perfect edifice, like the scaf- 
folding of a cathedral in front of the work to be 
executed. 

But when everything was ready, Claude once more 
began to have misgivings. The idea that he had per- 
haps not chosen the proper light in which to paint 
his picture fidgeted him. Perhaps an early morning 
effect would have been better? Perhaps he ought to 
have chosen a dull day, and so he went back to the 
Pont des Saint-P6res, and lived there for another 
three months. 

The Cite rose up before him, between the two arms 


292 


THE DEAD CHILD.’ 


of the river, at all hours and in all weather. After a 
late fall of snow he beheld it wrapped in ermine, and 
standing out above the mud-colored water, against a 
light slatey sky. On the first sunshiny days he beheld' 
it cleanse itself of everything wintry and acquire 
renewed infancy, as it were, with the sprouting verdure 
of the lofty trees on the low ground below the bridge. 
He beheld it on a somewhat misty day recede to a 
distance and evaporate, delicate and quivering, like a 
fairy palace. Then, again, there were pelting rains, 
which submerged and hid it behind the immense cur- 
tain drawn from the sky to the earth; storms, with 
lightning flashes which gave it a tawny hue, and lent 
it the opaque light .of some cut-throat place half 
destroyed by the fall of huge copper-colored clouds; 
winds that swept over it tempestuously, sharpening its 
angles and showing it, hard, bare and beaten against 
the pale blue sky. Then, again, when the sunbeams 
broke into dust amidst the vapors of the Seine, it 
appeared immersed in the depths of the diffused bright- 
ness, without a shadow about it, lighted up equally on 
all sides and looking charmingly delicate, like a cut 
gem set in fine gold. He insisted on beholding it when 
the sun was rising, piercing through the morning mists, 
when the Quai de I’Horloge flushes and the Quai des 
Orfevres remains wrapt in gloom; when up in the pink 
sky it is already full of life with the bright awakening 
of its towers and spires, while night, similar to a 
drooping cloak, slowly slides down from its buildings. 
He beheld it also at mid-day, with the sun poised 
vertically above it, when it is corroded, as it were, 
by a crude glare, when it becomes discolored and 
mute like a dead city, retaining nothing of life but 
its heat, the quiver of its distant housetops. He 
beheld it, moreover, beneath the setting sun, abandon- 
ing itself to the night slowly uprising from the river, 
with the salient edges of its monuments still fringed 


293 


‘'^THE DEAD CHILD.” 

with a glow like that of fuel about to be extin- 
guished, with final conflagrations rekindled in its win- 
dows, its frontages pierced with holes by the sudden 
flaring up of glass panes which launched forth tongue- 
like flashes. But in presence of these twenty dif- 
ferent aspects of the Cite, no matter what the hour 
or the weather was, he ever came back to the Citd 
he had seen for the first time, at about four o’clock 
one fine September afternoon, that Cite so calm in 
the gentle breeze, that heart of Paris beating in the 
limpid atmosphere, and seemingly enlarged by the 
vast stretch of sky which a flight of cloudlets was 
crossing. 

Claude spent his time there under the Pont des Saints- 
P^res. He had made it his shelter, his home, his 
roof. The constant din of the vehicles, similar to the 
distant rumbling of thunder, no longer disturbed him. 
Settling himself against the first abutment, beneath the 
huge iron arches, he took sketches, and painted studies. 
The employes of the river navigation service, the 
offices of which were hard by, got to know him, and, 
indeed, the wife of an inspector, who lived in a sort 
of tarred cabin with her husband, two children and a 
cat, kept his canvases for him, to save him the trouble 
of carrying them to and fro each day. It became his 
joy, this secluded nook beneath Paris, which rumbled 
in the air, and whose ardent life he felt rolling over- 
head. He, at first, became passionately interested in 
the Port St. Nicolas, with its ceaseless bustle like that 
of a distant genuine seaport. The steam crane, “The 
Sophia,” manoeuvred, hauling up blocks of stone; 
tumbrels arrived to fetch loads of sand; men and horses 
pulled, panting for breath on the large paving stones, 
which sloped down as far as the water, to the granite 
margin, along which a double row of lighters and barges 
was moored. For weeks Claude had worked hard at 
a study of some lightermen unloading a cargo of plaster. 


294 “THE DEAD CHILD.” 

carrying the white sacks on their shoulders, leaving a 
white path behind them, bepowdered with white them- 
selves, whilst hard by, another barge, unladen of its 
cargo of coal, had stained the bank with a huge inky 
blot. Then he sketched the profile of a swimming- 
bath on the left bank, together with a floating wash- 
house, somewhat in the rear; the windows open, the 
washerwomen in a row, kneeling down on a level 
with -Jihe stream, beating their dirty linen. In the 
middle of the river, he had studied a boat which a 
waterman sculled over the stern; then, farther behind, 
a steamer of the towing service straining its chain, and 
dragging a series of rafts, loaded with barrels and boards, 
up the stream. The principal backgrounds had been 
sketched a long while ago, still he did several bits 
over again — the two arms of the Seine, a sky all by 
itself, in which uprose only towers and spires gilded 
by the sun. And under the hospitable bridge, in that 
nook as secluded as some far-off cleft of a rock, he 
was rarely disturbed by any one. Tlie anglers passed 
by with contemptuous unconcern. His only companion 
w^as the overseer’s cat, cleaning herself in the sun-' 
light, at peace beneath the tumult of the world over- 
head. 

At last Claude had all his documents. In a few 
days he threw off an outline sketch of the whole, and 
the great work was begun. However, the first battle 
between himself and his huge canvas raged in the 
Kue Tourlaque right through the summer; for he had 
obstinately insisted upon personally attending to the 
technical calculation of his composition, and he failed 
to manage it, getting into constant muddles about the 
slightest deviation in the mathematical plan, of which 
he had no experience. It made him indignant with 
himself. So he let it go, deciding to make what cor- 
rections might be necessary afterwards. He covered 
his canvas with a rush — in such a fever as to live 


THE DEAD CHILD.’ 


295 


for whole days on liis steps, brandishing enormous 
brushes, and expending as much muscular force as if 
anxious to move mountains. And when evening came 
he reeled about like drunk, fell asleep when he had 
swallowed his last mouthful of food, used up com- 
pletely; and his wife had to put him to bed like a 
child. From this heroic labor sprang a masterly 
sketch — one of those sketches ablaze with genius 
amidst the somewhat chaotic mass of color. Bongrand, 
who came to look at it, caught the painter in his 
powerful arms, and stifled him with kisses, his eyes 
blinded with, tears. Sandoz, in his enthusiasm, gave 
a dinner; the others, Jory, Mahoudeau and Gagni^re, 
again went about announcing a masterpiece; as for 
Fagerolles, he remained motionless for a moment or 
so, then burst into congratulations, pronouncing it too 
beautiful. 

And, in fact, as if the irony of the successful trick- 
ster had brought him bad luck, Claude* subsequently 
only spoilt his sketch. It was the old story over 
again. He spent himself in one effort, in a magnificent 
spring, after which he failed to bring out the rest; he 
did not know how to- finish. He fell into his former 
impotence; he lived for two years engaged on this 
picture only, having no feeling for anything else; at 
times in a seventh heaven of exurberant joy; at others 
flung to earth, so wretched, so distracted by doubt, 
that dying men gasping in their beds in a hospital 
were happier than he was. Twice already he had 
failed to be ready for the Salon, for always, at the last 
moment, when he hoped to have finished in a few sit- 
tings, he found some void ; he felt his composition crack 
and crumble to pieces beneath his fingers. When the 
third Salon drew nigh, he had a terrible crisis; he 
remained for a fortnight without going to his studio 
in the Kue Tourlaque, and when he did return to it, 
it was as when one returns into a house desolated by 


296 


THE DEAD CHILD.’ 


death. He turned the huge canvas to the wall, rolled 
his steps into a corner; he would have smashed and 
burned everything if his faltering hands had found 
strength enough. Nothing more existed; a blast of 
anger had swept the floor clean; he spoke of setting 
to work at small things, as he was incapable of per- 
fecting paintings of any size. 

In spite of himself, his first idea of a picture on a 
small scale took him back to the Citd. Why should 
not he paint a simple view, on a moderate size can- 
vas? But a kind of shame, mingled with a strange 
jealousy, prevented him from settling himself in h:s 
old spot under the Pont des Saints-P^res. It seemed 
to him as if that spot were sacred now; that he ought 
not to offer any outrage to his great work, dead as it 
was. And he stationed himself at the end of the* bank, 
above the bridge. This time, at any rate, he would 
work directly from nature; he felt happy at not hav 
ing to resort to trickery, as was unavoidable with 
works of inordinate size. The small picture, very care- 
fully painted, more highly finished than usual, met, 
however, with the same fate as the others before the 
hanging committee, who were indignant with this 
style of painting executed with a tipsy brush, as was 
said at the time in the studios. The slap in the face 
was all the more severe, as a report had spread of 
concessions, of advances to the School of Arts, in 
order to be received. And when the picture came 
back to him, the painter, deeply wounded, weeping 
wdth rage, tore it into narrow shreds, which he burned 
in his stove. It was not sufficient to kill that one 
with a knife thrust, it must be annihilated. 

Another year went by for Claude in desultory toil. 
He worked from habit, but finished nothing; he him- 
self saying, with a painful laugh, that he had lost 
himself, and was trying to find himself again. In 
reality the tenacious consciousness of his genius left 


“the dead child.’ 


297 


him a hope not to be destroyed, and this even during 
the longest crises of despondency. He suftered like 
some one damned, forever rolling along the rock 
which slipped back again ancT crushed him; but the 
future remained to him, the certainty of seizing that 
rock one day in his powerful arms and of flinging it 
upward to the stars. His friends at last beheld his 
eyes light up with passion once more. It was known 
that he again secluded himself in the Kue Tourlaque. 
He who formerly had always been carried beyond the 
work on which he was engaged, by the spreading 
dream of the picture to come, now stood at bay before 
this subject of the Cite. It had become his fixed 
idea — the bar that closed up his life. And soon he 
began to speak freely of it again in a new blaze of 
enthusiasm, exclaiming, with childish delight, that he 
had found his way and that he felt certain of victory. 

One day Claude, who, so far, had not re-opened his 
door, condescended to admit Sandoz. The latter 
tumbled upon a study with a deal of dash in it, 
thrown off without a model, and again very admira- 
ble in color. Besides, the subject had remained the 
same — the Port St. Nicolas to the left, the swimming- 
baths to the right, the Seine and the Cite in the 
background. But he was amazed at perceiving, instead 
of the boat sculled by the waterman, another very 
large skiff taking up the whole centre of the com- 
position, and occupied by three women; one in a 
bathing costume was rowing; another was seated over 
the edge with her feet in the water, her costume, half 
unfastened, showing her bare shoulder; while the third 
stood erect at the prow, with so bright a tint that 
she irradiated like the sun. 

“Hallo! what an ideal” muttered Sandoz. “What 
are those women doing there ? ” 

“Why, they are bathing,” Claude answered quietly. 
“Don’t you see that they have come out of the 


298 


THE DEAD CHILD.’ 


swimming-batlis ; it supplies me with a motive; it’s a 
real find, eh? Does it shock you?” 

His old friend, who knew him well by now, dreaded 
to give him cause for discouragement. 

“I, oh! no! Only I am afraid that the public will 
again fail to understand. That woman in the very 
midst of Paris — it’s improbable.” 

Claude looked naively surprised. 

“Ah! you think so. Well, so much the worse. 
What’s the odds, as long as the woman is well 
painted? Besides, I need something like that to get 
my courage up.” 

On the following occasions, Sandoz gently reverted 
to the strangeness of the composition, pleading, as was 
his nature, the cause of outraged logic. How could 
a modern painter who prided himself on painting 
merely what was real — how could he strain his work 
by introducing such fanciful things into it? It would 
have been so easy to choose another subject, in which 
such things would have been necessary. But Claude 
became obstinate, resorted to lame and violent explana- 
tions, for he would not avow the real reason; an idea 
of his own so wanting in lucidness that he would 
have been at a loss to express it clearly, the longing 
for some secret symbolism; the old recrudescence of 
romanticism which made him see the incarnation of 
the very flesh of Paris in this oddity, the city impas- 
sioned, resplendent with the beauty of woman. 

Before the pressing objections of his friend he pre- 
tended to be shaken in his resolution. 

After that he never reverted to the subject again, 
remaining silently obstinate, merely shrugging his 
shoulders and smiling with embarrassment when some 
allusion betrayed the general astonishment at the sight 
of this Venus emerging triumphantly from the froth 
of the Seine amidst the omnibuses on the quavs and 
the lightermen of the Port St. Nicolas. 


THE DEAD CHILD.’ 


299 


Spring had come round again, Claude was once more 
setting to work at his large picture, when a decision — 
arrived at in a moment of prudence — changed the daily 
life of the household. At times Christine could not 
help getting uneasy at all this money so quickly 
spent — sums which constantly diminished the capital. 
Since the supply had seemed inexhaustible, they no 
longer counted. Then, at the end of four years, they 
had woke up one morning frightened, when, on asking 
for their account, they found that barely three thou- 
sand francs were left out of the twenty thousand. 
They immediately fell into a reaction of severe economy, 
stinting themselves about their bread, planning the 
cutting down of the barest necessities; and it was thus 
that, in the first impulse of self-sacrifice, they left the 
Eue de Douai. What was the use of having two rents 
to pay? There was room enough in the old drying-shed 
in the Rue de Tourlaque — still stained with the dyes of 
former days — to afibrd accommodation to three people. 
Their settlement there was, nevertheless, a laborious 
affair; for this gallery, fifteen metres long by ten broad, 
provided them, after all, with but one room ; it was 
like a gipsy’s shed, where everything had to be done 
in common. As the landlord was unwilling, the 
painter himself had to divide it at one end by a boarded 
partition, behind which he devised a kitchen and a 
bedroom. They were delighted with it, despite the 
chinks in the roof, through which the wind blew, and 
although they were obliged on rainy days to set basins 
beneath the broader cracks. The place looked mourn- 
fully bare. They themselves pretended to be proud at 
being lodged so spaciously; they told their friends 
that little Jacques would at feast have room to run 
about. Poor Jacques, in spite of his nine years, did 
not • grow apace ; only his head seemed to become 
larger. They could not send him to school for more 
than a week at a stretch, for he came back absolutely 


800 


THE DEAD CHILD. 


dazed, ill with having tried to learn, so that they 
nearly always allowed him to live on all fours around 
them, crawling about from one corner to another. 

Christine, who for a long while had had no share 
in Claude’s daily work, found herself once more beside 
him through every hour of his long spells of toil. 
She helped him to scrape and pumice the old canvas; 
she gave him some advice about attaching it more 
securely to the wall. But they found that another 
disaster had befallen them — the steps had become 
warped in the constant damp from the roof, and, for 
fear of an accident, he was obliged to strengthen them 
by an oak cross-piece, while she handed him the 
nails one by one. Once more, and for the second 
time, everything was ready. She watched him mathe- 
matically outlining his sketch once more, standing 
behind him, till she felt faint with fatigue, and finally 
dropping to the floor, where she remained squatting, 
and still looking at him. 

Ah I how she would have liked to snatch him from 
this painting which had seized hold of him. It was 
for that she made herself his servant, only too happy 
to lower herself to laborer’s toil. Since she shared 
his work again, the three of them, he, she and the 
canvas side by side, her hope revived. If he had 
escaped her when, all alone, she cried her eyes out in 
the Eue de Douai, if he had lingered till late in the 
Eue de Tourlaque, fascinated and exhausted, perhaps, 
now that she was there, she might regain her hold 
over him. Ah, that painting business, with what 
jealous hatred she hated it! It was no longer the 
revolt of the middle-class girl, who painted in water 
colors, against this independent, brutal, magnificent 
art. ETo, little by little, she had come to understand 
it, drawn towards it at first by her love for the pain- 
ter, gained over afterwards by the feast of light, by 
the original charm of the bright tints. By now she had 


THE HEAD CHILD.’ 


301 


accepted everj^tliing, lilac- tinted soil and blue trees. 
Indeed, a kind of respect made her quiver before 
these works that had seemed so horrid to her at first. 
She beheld their power well enough, and treated them 
like rivals of which one could no longer joke. But 
her vindictiveness grew in proportion to her admira- 
tion; she revolted at having to stand hy and witness 
this diminution of herself. 

At first it was a silent struggle of every minute. 
She obtruded herself, and at each moment interposed 
whatever she could of her own self, a hand, a shoulder, 
between the painter and his picture. She always 
remained there, enwrapping him with her breath, 
reminding him that he was hers. Then her old -idea 
revived — she also would paint; she would join him in 
the very depths of his art fever. During a whole month 
she put on a blouse, and worked like a pupil by the 
side of a master, docilely copying one of his sketches, 
and she only gave in when she found the effort turn 
against her object; for he finished by forgetting that 
she was a woman, as if deceived by their working 
conjointly, on a footing of simple comradeship as 
between man and man. Accordingly she resorted to 
what was her only strength. 

To set some of the small figures of his latter pic- 
tures on their legs Claude had many a time already 
taken the hint of a head, the pose of an arm, the 
attitude of a whole body from Christine. He threw 
a cloak on her shoulders, and caught her in the 
movement he wanted, shouting to her not to stir. 
These were services which she showed herself only too 
pleased to render him. 

However, since Claude had broadly outlined the large, 
upright female figure which Avas to occupy the centre 
of his picture, Christine looked at the vague silhouette 
in a dreamy way, worried by an ever obtruding thought 


302 


THE DEAD CHILD.’ 


before wliicli her scruples vanished one by one. And 
so when he spoke of taking a model, she offered herself. 

“What! you? But you get in a passion when I ask 
you for as much as the tip of your nose.” 

She smiled, embarrassed. 

“Oh! the tip of my nose! As if I didn’t pose for 
your figure in the ‘Open Air’ subject long ago. A 
model will cost you seven francs a sitting. We are 
not so rich, we may as well save the money.” 

The question of economy decided him at once. 

“I’m agreeable, and it’s even very nice of you to 
have this courage, for you know that it is not a bit 
of idle pastime to sit for me. Never mind, you had 
better confess to it, you big booby, you are afraid of 
another woman setting her feet in the place; you are 
jealous.” 

Jealous! Yes, indeed she was jealous, so jealous that 
she suffered agony. But she snapped her fingers at 
other women. She had but one rival, that painting 
he preferred which robbed her of him. 

Claude, who was delighted at first, made a study, a 
simple academic study, in the attitude required for 
his picture. They waited until Jacques had gone to 
school; they locked themselves in, and the sitting 
lasted for hours. During the first days Christine suffered 
a great deal from being obliged to remain in the same 
position; then she grew used to it, not daring to com- 
plain, lest she might vex him, and keeping back her 
tears when he roughly pushed her about. And he 
soon acquired the habit of doing so, treating her like 
a mere model; more exacting with her, however, than 
if he had paid her, never afraid of unduly taxing her 
strength, as she was his wife. He employed her for 
everything, for an arm, for a foot, for the most trifling 
detail he stood in need of. He was simply lowering 
her, transforming her into a “ living lay figure,” which 


THE DEAD CHILD.’ 


803 


he stuck in front of him and copied as he would have 
copied a pitcher or a stew-pan for a bit of still life. 

This time Claude proceeded leisurely, and before 
roughing in the large figure he had already tired 
Christine for months by making her pose in twenty 
different ways in order “ to thoroughly imbue himself,” 
as . he expressed it. At last, one day, he began the 
roughing in. It was an autumnal morning, the north 
wind was already sharp, and it was by no means warm 
inside the vast studio itself, although the stove was 
roaring. As little Jacques, poorly with one of his fits 
of painful torpor, had been unable to go to school, 
they had decided to lock him up in the room at the 
back, telling him to be very good. And, shivering 
from head to foot, the mother prepared herself, and 
settled herself near the stove, motionless, in the attitude 
required. 

During the first hour, the painter, perched on his 
steps, gave her glances which seemed to slash her, 
but he did not speak a word. Unutterable sadness 
gradually stole over her, and she felt afraid of faint- 
ing, no, longer knowing whether she was suffering 
from the cold or from a despair that had come from 
afar, and the bitterness of which she felt to be rising 
within her. Her fatigue became so great that she stag- 
gered and hobbled about. 

“What, already? ” cried Claude. “Why, you haven’t 
been at it more than a quarter of an hour. You don’t 
want to earn your seven francs, then?” 

He was joking in a gruff voice, delighted with his 
work. And she had scarcely recovered the use of her 
limbs, beneath the dressing-gown she had wrapped 
round her, when he went on shouting: 

“Come on, come on, no idling! It’s a grand day, 
to-day is! I must either have some genius or else kick 
the bucket!” 

Then when she had resumed her pose, in the wan 


804 


THE DEAD CHILD.’ 


daylight, and when he had begun to paint again, he, 
continued from time to time to jerk out some sentence 
yielding to the need he experienced of making a noise 
whenever his work pleased him. 

“It’s very odd, you really absorb the light. For 
instance, this morning, one would scarcely believe it, 
you are altogether gray. And the other day you were 
altogether pink, oh ! pink of such a shade that it seemed 
improbable. It’s a nuisance, for one never knows — ” 

He stopped, blinking his eyes at her. 

“The study is deuced fine after all. It sets a glow 
against the background. And it quivers, becomes 
instinct with life, as if one could see the blood flowing 
in the veins. Ah I a well-drawn muscle, solidly painted 
in full light, there’s nothing finer, nothing better; it’s 
a god. As for me, I have no other religion, I’d go 
down on my knees before such a thing for the whole 
of my life.” 

And as he was obliged to come down for a tube of 
color, he approached her. 

Then, after climbing up the steps again, he shouted 
out in his feverish excitement: 

“Dash it all! If I don’t paint a masterpiece with you 
this time, I must be a pig!” 

Christine kept silent, and her anguish increased in 
the certainty that was stealing over her. Motionless, 
beneath the brutality of fact, she felt the discomfort of 
her situation. The experiment had been made, what 
was the good of further hope? Ah! this was the end; 
she no longer existed as a woman ; he no longer loved 
aught in her but his art, nature and life. And with her 
eyes gazing into space, she remained rigid like a statue, 
keeping down the tears with which her heart was swel- 
ling, not having even the wretched consolation of being 
able to cry. 

A call came from the bed-room, while a pair of small 
fists tapped on the door: 


“the dead child.” 305 

“Mamma, mamma, I can’t sleep, I want to play. Open 
the door, mamma.” 

It was Jacques, growing impatient. Claude became 
angry, growling that one never had a minute’s peace. 

“ By-and-bye,” shouted Christine. “Go to sleep. 
Your father wants to work.” 

But she seemed to get fidgety once more. She kept 
glancing at the door, and ended by relinquishing the 
pose for a moment so as to hang her petticoat on the key 
and thus cover the key-hole. Then, without saying a 
word, she again stationed herself near the stove, her head 
erect, her figure slightly thrown back, and her bosom 
swelling. 

And the sitting seemed everlasting, hours and hours 
went by. There she stood, offering herself in her atti- 
tude of a bathing girl about to jump into the water, 
while he, perched on his ladder up in the clouds, only 
yearned for the other Christine he was painting. He had 
even left off* speaking to her; she had simply become an 
object again, an object beautiful in color, lie had done 
nothing but look at her since the morning, and yet she 
could not find a trace of herself in his eyes; she was a 
stranger henceforth, driven away from him. 

At last he stopped with sheer fatigue; and he 
noticed that she was shivering. 

“Hallo! do you feel cold?” 

“Yes, a little.” 

“How funny! I’m burning hot. But I don’t want 
you to catch cold. That’ll do for to-day.” 

As he was getting down, she thought he was com- 
ing to kiss her. As a rule, and from a lingering sen- 
timent of conjugal gallantry, he rewarded her with a 
hasty kiss for the fatigue of the sitting. But now, 
full of his work, he forgot even about that; kneeling 
down, he at once proceeded to wash his brushes 
which he dipped in a pot of soft soap. And she, 
waiting, remained erect, still hoping. A minute 


806 


THE HEAD CHILD.’ 


passed by. He was astonished by this motionless 
shadow, looked at her in surprise, and then recom- 
menced to rub away energetically. Thereupon, her 
hands shaking in her hurry, she dressed herself in 
the horrible confusion of a woman disdained. 

But the very next morning she was bound to act 
as a model again in the chill atmosphere beneath the 
brutal light. Was it not her profession henceforth? 
How could she refuse now that it had become a 
habit? She would never have thought of causing 
Claude a moment’s grief, and each day she expe- 
rienced anew this defeat of her charms. 

For months these sittings thus became Christine’s 
daily torture. Their happy life together had ceased, 
there seemed to be three people in the place, as if 
he had introduced that woman he was painting after 
her. The vast picture rose up between them, divided 
them as with a wall, beyond which he lived with 
that other woman. This doubling of herself well nigh 
drove her mad with jealousy, and yet she felt the 
pettiness of her sufferings, and did not dare to avow 
them lest he should laugh at her. However, she did 
not deceive herself; she fully realized that he pre- 
ferred her counterfeit to herself, that her image was 
the worshipped one, the sole preoccupation, the affec- 
tion of his every hour. He killed her with sitting in 
order to enhance the beauty of the other; upon the 
other depended his joys and sorrows according as to 
whether he beheld her live or languish beneath his 
brush. Was not this love? And what a suffering to 
have to lend herself so that the other might be created, 
so that they might be haunted by a nightmare of this 
rival, so that the latter might forever be between them, 
more powerful than reality, in the studio, at meals, 
everywhere! So much dust, the veriest trifle, a patch of 
color on a canvas, a mere semblance destroying all their 
happiness — he, silent, indifferent, brutal at times — she. 


THE DEAD CHILD/ 


807 


tortured by bis desertion, in despair at being nnable 
to drive from her borne this rival, who was so encroach- 
ing and so terrible in her iconic immobility ! 

And it was then that Christine, finding herself alto- 
gether beaten, felt all the sovereignty of art weigh down 
upon her. This painting, which she had already 
accepted without restriction, she raised it still higher in 
her estimation, placed it in the sanctuary of a fear- 
inspiring tabernacle before which she remained crushed, 
as before those powerfuh divinities of wrath, which one 
honors, in the excess of hatred and fear that they inspire. 
It was a holy awe, the certainty that struggling was 
henceforth useless, that she would be crushed like a bit 
of straw if she persisted in her obstinacy. The canvases 
became magnified in her eyes, the smallest of them 
assumed triumphal dimensions, the worst overwhelmed 
her with their victory, and she no longer judged them, 
but grovelled, trembling, thinking all of them formida- 
ble, and invariably replying to her husband’s questions : 

“Oh, yes; very good. Oh, superb! Oh, very, very 
extraordinary that one.” 

Nevertheless, she harbored no anger against him; 
she continued to worship him with a tearful tender- 
ness, seeing him consume himself. After a few weeks 
of successful work, everything had become spoilt again ; 
he could not finish his large female figure. It was 
for that reason that he killed his model with fatigue, 
keeping hard at work for days and days, then leaving 
the picture untouched for a whole month. The figure 
was begun anew, relinquished, done all over again at 
least a dozen times. One year, two years went by 
without the picture being completed, though sometimes 
almost finished, but scratched out the next morning 
to be painted entirely over again. 

Ah! what an effort of art creation it was, an effort 
which cost him blood and tears, and made him agonize 
in his attempt to instil life. Ever battling with reality, 


808 


THE DEAD CHILD.’ 


and ever beaten, it was the struggle with the Angel. 
He was killing himself in this impossible task of 
making one canvas hold all nature ; he was exhausted 
at last by the constant pains which strained his 
muscles without his ever being able to bring his 
genius forth. What others were satisfied with, the 
more or less faithful rendering, the indispensable trick- 
eries, worried him with remorse, made him as indignant 
as if resorting to such practices had been ignoble coward- 
ice; and so he began over again, spoiled what was 
good through wanting to do better, finding that it didn’t 
appeal to one, always dissatisfied with his women — 
so his friends jokingly expressed it — until they flung 
their arms round his neck. What was lacking in his 
power that he could not endow them with life? Very 
little, no doubt. Sometimes he went beyond the right 
point, sometimes he stopped short of it. One day the 
words, “incomplete genius,” overheard behind his back, 
had flattered and frightened him. Yes, it must be 
that; he jumped too far or not far enough; he suf- 
fered from a want of nervous equilibrium; he was 
afflicted with the hereditary derangement which, 
because there were a few grains the more or the less of 
some substance in his brain, was making him a lunatic 
instead of a great man. When a fit of despair drove 
him from his studio, when he fled from his work, he 
now carried with him this idea of fatal impotence, and 
he heard it beating against his skull like the obstinate 
tolling of a funeral bell. 

His life became wretched. Never had doubt of him- 
self pursued him in that way before. He disappeared 
for whole days together; he even stopped out a whole 
night, coming back the next morning stupefied, without 
being able to say where he had been: it was thought he 
had been tramping through the outskirts of Paris rather 
than find himself face to face with his spoilt work. His 
sole relief was to fly off the -moment his work filled him 


“ THE DEAD CHILD.” 809 

with shame and hatred, and to remain away until he 
felt the courage to face it once more. And not even his 
wife dared to question him on his return, only too 
happy to see him back again after her anxious waiting. 
At such times he madly scoured Paris, especially the 
eccentric quarters, from a longing to debase himself and 
hob-nob with laborers; he expressed at every recur- 
ring crisis his old regret at not being some mason’s hod- 
man. Did not happiness consist in having solid limbs, 
in performing the work one was built for well and 
quickly? He had wrecked his life; he ought to have 
had himself engaged in the old times when he break- 
fasted at the “Dog of Montargis,” Gomard’s tavern, 
where he had had as a friend a Limousin, a big, strap- 
ping, merry fellow, whose brawny arms he envied. 
Then, when he came back to the Eue Tourlaque, with 
his legs giving way and his head empty, he gave his 
picture the distressful, frightened glance one casts at the 
dead in a mortuary-room, and this until fresh hope of 
resuscitating it, of endowing it with life brought a 
flush to his face once more. 

-One day Christine was posing, and the figure of 
the woman was again well nigh finished. For the last 
hour, however, Claude had been growing gloomy, losing 
the childish delight, he had displayed at the beginning 
of the sitting. So Christine did not dare to breathe, 
realizing by her own discomfort that everything was 
going wrong once more, and afraid that she might accel- 
erate the catastrophe if she moved as much as a finger. 
And, surely enough, he suddenly gave a cry of pain, and 
launched forth an oath like a clap of thunder. 

He had flung his handful of brushes from the top of 
the steps. Then, blinded with rage, with one blow of 
his fist he transpierced the canvas. 

Christine held out her trembling hands. 

“My dear, my dear!” 

But when she had flung a dressing-gown over her 


810 


THE DEAD CHILD.’ 


sTioulders and approaclied the picture, she experienced 
keen delight, a burst of satisfied hatred. The fist had 
struck “the other one” and there was a gaping hole! 
At last that other one was killed! 

Motionless, horror-struck at his murder, Claude 
stared at that perforated shape. A poignant grief 
came to him at sight of the wound whence the blood 
of his work seemed to flow. Was it possible? Was 
it he who had thus murdered what he loved best of all 
on earth? His anger changed into stupor; his fingers 
wandered over the canvas, drawing the ragged edges 
of the rent together, as if he had wanted to close the 
flesh of a bleeding gash. He was choking ; he stam- 
mered, distracted with gentle, boundless grief: 

“She is killed, she is killed ! ” 

Then Christine felt moved to her very soul in her 
maternal love for this big child of an artist. She for- 
gave him as usual. She saw well enough that he now 
had but one thought — to mend the tear, to repair the 
evil at once; and she helped him, it was she wdio 
held the shreds together, whilst he from behind glued 
a strip of canvas against them. When she dressed 
herself, “the other one” was there again, immortal, 
only retaining in the vicinity of her heart a slight 
scar, which seemed to make her doubly dear to the 
painter. 

As this unhinging of Claude’s faculties increased, he 
drifted into a sort of superstition, into a devout belief 
of certain processes. Insanity seemed to be at the end 
of it all. 

Poverty finished Claude off. It had gradually in- 
creased, while the family spent money without count- 
ing, and, when the last penny of the twenty thousand 
francs had gone, it swooped down upon them — hor- 
rible and irreparable. Christine, who wanted to look 
for work, was incapable of doing anything, even ordi- 
nary needlework. She bewailed ’ her lot, twirling her 


THE DEAD CHILD.’ 


811 


fingers, inveighing against tlie idiotic, young lady’s 
education she had received, which l§ft her the sole 
resource of going into domestic service, if life still went 
against them. Claude had become a subject of chaff* 
with the Parisians — he no longer sold a picture. An 
independent exhibition, at which he and some friends 
had shown some pictures, had finished him off* as regards 
amateurs — so merry had the public become at sight of 
his canvases, streaked with all the colors of the rainbow. 
The dealers fled from him. M. Hue alone made a pil- 
grimage now and then to .the Eue Tourlaque, and 
remained in ecstacy before the exaggerated bits, before 
those that blazed in unexpected pyrotechnical fashion, 
in despair at not being able to cover them with gold. 
And though the painter wanted to make him a present 
of them, implored him to accept them, the old fellow dis- 
played extraordinary delicacy of feeling. He pinched 
himself to amass a small sum from time to time, and 
then religiously took away the seemingly delirious 
picture, to hang it beside his masterpieces. Such wind- 
falls came too seldom, and Claude had been obliged to 
descend to “trade art” — repugnant as it was to him — 
and such was his despair at having fallen into this path, 
where he had sworn never to set his feet, that he would 
have preferred starving to death, but for the two poor 
beings who were agonizing like himself. He became 
familiar with “ Via Holorosas” painted at reduced prices, 
with male and female saints at so much per gross, even 
with “pounced” shop blinds — in short, all the ignoble 
jobs that degrade painting and make it so much idiotic 
delineation, lacking even the charm of naivetd. He 
even suffered the humiliation of having portraits at five- 
and'twenty francs apiece refused, because he failed to 
produce a likeness; and he reached the lowest degree of 
distress, he worked according to size for the petty dealers 
who sell daubs on the bridges and export them to semi- 
civilized countries. They bought his pictures at two and 


312 


THE DEAD CHILD. 


three francs apiece, according to the regulation dimen- 
sions. It was like physical decay, it made him waste 
away; he rose from such tasks feeling ill, incapable of 
serious work, looking at his large picture in distress, 
with the glances of one “damned,” leaving it sometimes 
untouched for a week, as if he had felt his hands 
begrimed and unworthy of working at it. They scarcely 
had bread, and the huge shanty became uninhabitable in 
the winter, this shanty which Christine had shown her- 
self so proud of on settling in it. She, once such an 
active housewife, now dragged herself about the place, 
without the courage even to sweep the floor, and every- 
thing lapsed into abandonment in the disaster, little 
Jacques weakened by unwholesome and insufhcent food, 
their meals often consisting of a bare crust, taken stand- 
ing. With their lives ill-regulated, uncared for, they 
were drifting to the filth of the poor, who lose even all 
self-pride. 

At the close of another year, Claude, on one of 
those days of defeat, when he fled from his miscar- 
ried picture, met with an old acquaintance. This time 
he had sworn he would never go home again; he had 
been tramping across Paris since noon, as if he had 
heard, galloping at his heels, the wan spectre of the 
big figure, ravaged by constant retouching, and always 
left incomplete, pursuing him with an agonizing long- 
ing for birth. The mist was melting into a yellowish 
drizzle, soiling the muddy streets. It was about five 
o’clock, and he was crossing the Eue Eoyale like one 
walking in his sleep, at the risk of being run over, 
his clothes in rags and mud -bespattered up to his 
neck, when a brougham suddenly drew up. 

“Claude, eh? Claude! — is that how you pass your 
friends?” 

It was Irma Bdcot, in a charming gray silk dress, 
covered with Chantilly lace. She had hastily let down 


THE DEAD CHILD.’ 


313 


the window, and she sat smiling, beaming in the 
framework of the door. 

“Where are you going?” 

He, staring at her open-mouthed, replied that he 
was going nowhere. At this she merrily expressed sur- 
prise in a loud voice, looking at him with her saucy 
eyes, with the pouting, perverse lips of a grand lady, 
taken with a sudden longing for some unripe fruit lying 
on a petty greengrocer’s stall. 

“Get in, then, it’s such a long while since we met. 
Get in, or you’ll be knocked down. ” 

And, in fact, the drivers were getting impatient and 
urging their horses on, amidst a terrible din, so he did 
as he was bidden, dazed; and she drove him away, drip- 
ping, with the unmistakable signs of his poverty upon 
him, in the blue satin brougham, where he was partly 
seated on the lace of her skirt, while the hackney drivers 
jeered at the elopement, before falling into line again to 
re-establish the traffic. 

Irma Becot had, at last, realized the dream of having 
a house of her own in the Avenue de Yilliers. But it 
had taken her years to attain this result; the ground had 
been bought by one protector; the five hundred thou- 
sand francs which the building had cost, the three 
hundred thousand francs spent on furniture, had been 
contributed by others, at times when she luckily inspired 
a big passion. It was a princely dwelling, magnificently 
appointed, above all, exceedingly refined in its comfort ; 
it was like the immense alcove of some idle woman, a 
huge couch, that began at the carpets of the hall and 
extended to the padded walls. 

Irma, on reaching home with Claude, gave orders 
that she was in to nobody. She would have set fire 
to the whole of her valuable belongings to satisfy a 
whim. As they were passing together through the 
dining-room, a gentleman wished to come in, despite all 
prohibitions; but, without minding being overheard, 


814 


THE DEAD CHILD. 


she told the servants, in a loud voice, to send him 
away. Then, when they sat down to dinner, she 
laughed with childish glee; she, who was never hun- 
gry, ate of everything; she feasted her eyes on the 
painter with a delighted look, diverted seemingly by 
his strong, ill-kept beard, and his working jacket, 
several buttons of which were missing. He, like one 
in a dream, remained passive throughout, also eating 
with the greedy appetite of great crises. The dinner 
passed off silently, the butler waiting upon them with 
proud dignity. 

“Louis, you’ll take the coffee and liqueurs to my 
room.” 

In the morning, when Claude was going, Irma, pink 
and fresh as if after a good night’s rest, quite trim in her 
dressing-gown, her hair already arranged and she herself 
looking very calm, kept his hands for a moment in bers. 
Gazing at him with a tender, but, at the same time, chaf- 
fing look, she said, very affectionately: 

“My poor old boy, I am very much pleased, very 
much pleased, indeed.” 

Claude went straight to the Eue Tourlaque, dazed, as 
it were, by this adventure. He felt a strange mixture 
of vanity and remorse, which, for a couple of days, left 
him indifferent to painting, musing whether after all he 
might not have taken the wrong course in life. Besides, 
he looked so strange on his return, so brimful of his 
escapade, that Christine questioned him, whereupon he 
at first stuttered and stammered, and finally confessed 
everything. There was a scene; she wept for a long 
while, then pardoned once more, full of infinite indul- 
gence for his faults. However, towards the middle of 
the winter, Claude’s courage revived once more. One 
day, while putting his old frames in order, he came upon 
a roll of canvas which had fallen behind the other paint- 
ings. It was the reclining woman of “In the Open Air,” 
which he had cut out of the picture when it had come 


THE DEAD CHILD.’ 


315 


back to him from the Salon of the Kejected. And, as 
he was unrolling it, he uttered a cry of admiration: 

“By the gods, how beautiful it is!” 

He at once secured it to* the wall with four nails, and 
remained for hours in contemplation before it. His 
hands shook, the blood rusbed to his face. Was it 
possible that he had painted such a masterly bit? He 
had had genius in those days then? So his skull, his 
eyes, his fingers had been changed? He got into such a 
state of feverish exaltation, he felt such a need of 
unburdening himself to some one, that at last he called 
his wife. 

“Just come and have a look. Isn’t her attitude good, 
eh? Ah, heaven! it’s full of life!” 

Christine, standing close to him, kept looking and 
answered him in monosyllables. This resurrection of 
herself, after so many years, had at first flattered and 
surprised her. But, seeing him get so excited, she 
gradually felt very uncomfortable, vaguely irritated, 
without knowing why. 

“Say, don’t you think her beautiful enough for one to 
go on one’s knees before her?” 

“Yes, yes! But she has grown rather blackish!” 

Claude protested vehemently. Grown blackish ! What 
an idea! That woman would never grow black; she 
possessed immortal youth. A veritable passion had 
seized hold of him; he spoke of her as of a living being; 
he had sudden longings to look at her that made him 
leave everything else. 

Then, one morning, he. was taken with a fit of work. 

“But, confound it all, as I did this, I can surely do it 
again. Ah, this time, unless I’m a downright brute, 
we’ll see about it.” 

And Christine had to give him a sitting there and 
then, for he was already perched on his steps, eager to 
set to work again at his big picture. For eight hours a 
day during a whole month he kept her there, her feet 


316 


THE DEAD CHILD. 


numbed by immobility, pitiless for the exhaustion from 
which he saw her suftering and as ferociously callous 
about his own fatigue. He obstinately insisted upon 
producing a masterpiece; he was determined that his 
upright figure should equal that reclining one, which he 
saw on the wall, beaming with life. He constantly 
referred to it, compared it with the one he was painting, 
distracted and goaded by the fear of never more being 
able to equal it. He cast one glance at it, another at 
Christine, and a third at his canvas, and broke into 
cursing when he felt dissatisfied. He ended by abusing 
his wife. 

‘‘I don’t wonder at it, my dear; you are not as you 
were at the Quai de Bourbon. Oh! not at all! Yes, 
yes, you may certainly pride yourself upon it, you used 
to have a lovely figure.” 

He did not say these things to wound her, he simply 
spoke as a critic, with half-closed eyes, talking of her 
as of an anatomical study that was degenerating. “The 
coloring is still splendid, but the shape is no longer what 
it used to be. Come, just look at yourself in the glass, 
and you’ll notice.” 

With an affectionate glance at the reclining figure, he 
concluded : 

“Of course, it isn’t your fault, but it is evidently that 
which spoils my work. Ah, I’ve got no luck.” 

She listened; she staggered in her very grief. Those 
hours of posing, from which she had already suffered so 
much, were becoming an unbearable torture now. What 
was this new freak of crushing her with her girlhood, of 
fanning her jealousy by filling her with the poisonous 
regret of her vanished beauty. She was becoming her 
own rival, she could no longer look at that old picture 
of herself without being stung at the heart by hateful 
envy. Ah, how heavily had that picture, that study 
she had sat for, weighed upon her existence. The whole 
of her misfortunes sprang from that. And that picture 


THE DEAD CHILD.’ 


317 


Lad come to life again, it rose from the dead, endowed 
with greater vitality than herself, to finish killing her, 
for there was no longer aught but one masterpiece — the 
reclining woman of the old canvas, who now simply rose 
up and became the upright figure of the new picture. 

After that Christine felt herself growing older and 
older at every sitting. Lowering her eyes, she cast 
troubled glances at herself, and fancied that she could see 
wrinkles forming, the pure outlines of her figure becom- 
ing deformed. Never had she studied herself like that 
before; she felt disgusted and ashamed; she felt that 
infinite despair of women when love, like beauty, aban- 
dons them. Was it because of this that he no longer 
cared for her, that he sought refuge in an unnatural pas- 
sion for his work? She lost the clear perception of 
things; she fell into a state of utter neglect, going about 
in a dressing jacket and a dirty petticoat, destitute of 
all coquettishness, and discouraged* by the idea that it 
was useless to struggle, as she was old. 

One day Claude, in a rage at an unsuccessful sitting, 
uttered a terrible cry, from the effect of which she was 
destined never to recover. He had almost shoved his 
fist through his picture again, beside himself, shaking 
with one of those angry fits, in which he seemed to 
become insane. And with his fist still clenched, he 
vented his rage upon her: 

“No, decidedly I can do nothing with this! Look 
here, when a woman wants to play the model, she 
shouldn’t get old.” 

Kevolted at the insult, crying bitterly, she rushed 
away. He, full of remorse, had at once descended from 
the steps to console her. 

“Come, I was wrong, I am a brute. 1 beg of you 
just pose a little longer to prove to me that you forgive 
me.” 

He caught her in his arms. And she pardoned once 
more, and resumed the pose, so shaken with grief, as to 


818 


THE DEAD CHILD. 


quiver painfully in every limb, while in her statue-like 
immobility, big, silent tears kept streaming down her 
cheeks. Yes, her child, it would have been better had 
it never been born. He was the cause of everything, 
perhaps. And she cried no longer; she was already 
excusing the father, harboring covert anger for. the poor 
little being who had never aroused any maternal feelings 
in her heart, and whom she now hated, at the idea that 
it was he who had destroyed her. 

This time, however, Claude stuck to his work obsti- 
nately, and he finished his picture, and swore that, come 
what might, he would send it to the Salon. He lived on 
his steps, cleaning up his backgrounds until dark. At 
last, thoroughly exhausted, he declared that he would 
not touch the canvas any more, and that day when San- 
doz came to see him at four o’clock, he did not find him 
at home. Cliristine said that he had just gone’ out to 
take a breath of air on the heights of Montmartre. 

The breach between Claude and his friends of the old 
band had gradually widened. Each of the latter’s visits 
had become short and far between, for they felt uncom- 
fortable face to face with this disturbing style of paint- 
ing, and were more and more upset by the unhinging 
of the mind which had been the admiration of their 
youth; and now they all had fled; no one returned any 
more. Gagni^re had even left Paris, to settle down in 
one of the two houses he owned at Melun, where he 
lived frugally upon the proceeds of the other one, after 
having abruptly, and to everyone’s surprise, married his 
music mistress, an old maid w'ho played .Wagner to him 
of an evening. As for Mahoudeau, he alleged work, for 
he was beginning to earn some money, thanks to a 
bronze manufacturer, who employed him to touch up his 
models. It was another affair with Jory, whom no one 
saw since Mathilde despotically kept him sequestrated. 
She stuffed him to bursting with nice little dishes, stupe- 
fied him, gorged him with everything he liked to such a 


THE DEAD CHILD.’ 


319 


degree tliat lie liad fallen into a kind of domesticity com- 
parable to that of a faithful dog, yielding up the keys of 
his cash-box, and only having enough money about him 
to buy a cigar on the days when she condescended to 
leave him a franc. It was even said that like the 
devotee she had once been, she had thrown him into the 
arms of the Church, in order to consolidate her conquest, 
and that she spoke to him about death, of which he was 
horribly afraid. Fagerolles, alone, affected a lively, 
cordial feeling towards his old friend whenever he hap- 
pened to meet him, always promising to go and see him, 
which, however, he never did. He was so busy since his 
great success, in such request, advertised, celebrated, on 
the road to every imaginable honor and fortune! And 
Claude regretted no one but Dubuche, from a feeling of 
sneaking affection for the old reminiscences of his boy- 
hood, notwithstanding the disagreements which the 
difference of their natures had provoked later on. But 
Dubuche, it appeared, was not very happy either, gorged, 
as he no doubt was, with millions, but leading a wretched 
life, constantly at loggerheads with his father-in-law (who 
complained of his having deceived him with regard to 
his capacities as an architect), and obliged to pass his 
life amidst the medicine bottles of his ailing wife and 
his two children. 

Of all these dead friendships, therefore, there remained 
but that of Sandoz, who still found his way to the Kue 
Tourlaque. He came there for little Jacques, his god- 
son, for the sorrowing woman also, that Christine Avhose 
passionate features amidst all this distress moved him 
deeply, like one of those creatures whom he would have 
liked to embody in his books. But, above all, his artis- 
tic, fraternity had increased since he had seen Claude 
losing ground, foundering amidst the heroic folly of art. 
At first he had remained utterly astonished at it, for he 
had believed in his friend more than in himself. Since 
their college days, he had always placed himself second, 


320 


THE DEAD CHILD.’ 


while setting Claude very high, on the same rung as the 
masters who revolutionize a period. Then he had been 
generously affected by this bankruptcy of genius; he 
had become full of bitter, bleeding pity at sight of this 
horrible torture of impotency. Did one ever know who 
was the madman in art! Every failure touched him to 
the quick, and the more the picture or the book verged 
upon aberration, fell into the grotesque and lamentable, 
the more he quivered with compassion, the more he 
longed to piously lull to sleep, in the extravagance of 
their dreams, those who were thus blasted by their own 
work. 

On the day that Sandoz called, and failed to find 
Claude at home, he did not go away ; but seeing Chris- 
tine’s eyelids red with crying, he said: 

“If you think that he’ll be in soon. I'll wait for him.^’ 

“Oh ! he is sure not to be long.” 

“In that case I’ll wait, unless I am in your way.” 

Never had she moved him to such a degree with her 
crushed look of a neglected woman, her listless move- 
ments, her slow speech, her indifference for everything 
but the passion that was consuming her. For the last 
week, perhaps, she had not put a chair in its place, not 
dusted a piece of furniture, leaving the place to go to 
wreck and ruin, scarcely having the strength to drag 
herself about. And it was enough to break one’s heart 
to behold this misery head over heels in filth beneath 
the glaring light from the large window; to gaze on this 
ill-kept shanty, bare and full of disorder, where one 
shivered with melancholy in spite of the bright February 
afternoon. 

Christine had slowly sat down beside an iron bed- 
stead, which Sandoz had not noticed when he came in. 

“Hallo,’^ he said, “is Jacques ill?” 

She was covering up the child, whose hands con- 
stantly flung off the bed-clothes. 

“Yes, he hasn’t been up for these three days. We 


THE DEAD CHILD.’ 


321 


brought bis bed in here so that be might be with us. 
He was never very strong. But be is getting worse and 
worse; it’s distracting.” 

She gazed with a fixed stare and spoke in a monoto- 
nous tone, and he felt frightened when he drew up to the 
bedside. The child’s livid head seemed to have grown 
bigger still, the skull so heavy now that he could not 
support it. He lay perfectly still, and you would have 
thought he was dead, but for the heavy breathing com- 
ing from between his discolored lips. 

“My poor little Jacques, it’s I, your godfather. 
Won’t you say how d’ye do?” 

The head made a fruitless, painful effort to lift itself, 
the eyelids parted, showing the white eye-balls, then 
closed again. 

“Have you sent for a doctor?” 

She shrugged her shoulders. 

“ Oh I doctors, what do they know? We sent for one; 
he said that there was nothing to be done. Let us hope 
that it will pass over again. He is close upon twelve, 
and may be growing too fast.” 

Sandoz, quite chilled, said nothing for fear of increas- 
ing her anxiety, since she did not seem to realize the 
gravity of the disease. He walked about in silence and 
stopped in front of the picture. 

“Ho, ho! it’s getting on; it’s on the right road this 
time.” 

“ It’s finished.” 

“What! finished?” 

And when she told him that the canvas was to be sent 
to the Salon that next week, he looked uncomfortable, 
and sat down on the couch, like a man who wishes to 
judge without haste. The background, the quays, the 
Seine, whence uprose the triumphal point of the Citd, 
still remained in a sketchy state — masterly, however, 
but as if the painter had been afraid of spoiling the 
Paris of his dream by giving it a greater finish. There 
20 


322 


THE DEAD CHILD.’ 


was also an excellent group on the left, the lightermen 
unloading the sacks of plaster, carefully-worked bits 
treated in a powerful style. But the boat, full of women 
in the centre, transpierced the picture, as it were, with a 
blaze of flesh-tints, not in their proper place there; and 
the brilliancy, the hallucinatory proportions of the large 
figure, which Claude had painted in a fever, were 
strangely, disconcertingly false amidst the reality of the 
rest. 

Sandoz, silent, felt despair stealing over him as he sat 
in front of this magnificent failure. But he saw Chris- 
tine’s eyes fixed upon him, and he had sufficient strength 
of mind to say : 

“Astounding, the woman, astounding!” 

At that moment Claude came in, and on seeing his old 
chum he uttered a joyous cry and shook his hand 
vigorously. Then he approached Christine, and kissed 
little Jacques, who had once more thrown the bed-clothes 
off*. 

“How is he?” 

“ Just the same.” 

“ To be sure, to be sure ; he is growing too fast. A 
few days’ rest will set him all right. I told you not to 
be uneasy.” 

And Claude thereupon sat down by Sandoz’s side on 
the couch.^ They both took their ease, leaning back, 
half reclining, their eyes gazing upwards surveying the 
picture, while Christine, seated by the bed, looked at 
nothing, seemed to think of nothing, in the everlasting 
desolation of her heart. Night was slowly coming on, 
the vivid light from the window paled already, losing its 
sheen in the slowly-falling, uniform, crepuscular dim- 
ness. 

“So it’s settled; your wife told me that you were 
going to send it in.” 

“Yes.” 

“You are right; you had better have done with it 


THE DEAD CHILD.’ 


823 


once for all. Oli, there are some magnificent bits in it. 
The quay in perspective to the left, the man who 
shoulders that sack below. But — ” 

He hesitated, then finally took the bull by the horns: 

“But it’s odd that you have persisted in leaving those 
women in that state. It isn’t logical, I assure you. 
You have set your heart upon them very much then? ” 

“Yes.” 

Claude answered curtly, with the obstinacy of the 
fixed idea which disdains to give any explanations. He" 
had crossed his arms behind his head, and began talking 
of other things, without taking his eyes off his picture 
which the twilight commenced to darken with a slight 
shadow. 

“Do you know where I have just come from? ” he 
asked. “I, have been to Courajod’s. You know, the 
great landscape painter, whose ‘Pond of Gagny ’ is at the 
Luxembourg. You remember, I thought he was dead, 
and we were told that he lived near here on the other 
side of the hill, in the Rue de I’Abreuvoir. Well, old, 
boy, he worried me, did Courajod. While taking a 
breath of air now and then up there, I discovered his 
shanty, and I could no longer pass in front of it without! 
wanting to go inside. Just think, a master, a fellow" 
who invented our modern landscapes, and who liveg 
there, unknown, done for, like a mole in its hole. 
Besides, you can form no idea of the street or the 
caboose, a village street, full of fowls, bordered by 
grassy banks ; a caboose like a child’s toy, with tiny 
windows, a tiny door, a tiny garden. Oh ! the garden — 
a mere patch of soil, sloping down abruptly, planted 
with four pear trees, and the rest of it taken up by a 
fowl house, made out of green boards, old plaster and 
wire network, held together with bits of string.” 

His words came slowly; he was blinking his eyes as 
if the preoccupation of his picture had entered his very 


324 


THE DEAD CHILD.’ 


soul, and was gradually taking possession of him to 
such a degree as to hamper him in his speech. 

“And as lack will have it, to-day I find Courajod on 
his doorstep. An old man of more than eighty, wrin- 
kled, shrunk to the size of a boy. I should like you to 
see him with his clogs, his peasant’s jersey, his colored 
handkerchief wound over his head as if he were an old 
market-woman. I pluckily go up to him, saying, 
‘Monsieur Courajod, I know you very well; you have a 
picture in the Luxembourg gallery which is a downright 
masterpiece. Allow a painter to shake hands with you 
as he would with his master.’ At this you should have 
seen him take fright, draw back and stutter, as if I were 
going to strike him. A regular flight. I followed him. 
Gradually he recovered his composure, ' and then he 
showed me his hens, ducks, rabbits, dogs, an extraor- 
dinary collection ; there was even a raven. He li ves in 
the midst of all these; he speaks to no one but his ani- 
mals. As for the view, it’s simply magnificent; the 
whole of the St. Denis plain, for miles upon miles; 
rivers, towns, smoking factory-chimneys, putfing railway- 
engines ; in short, a real hermit’s hole on the hill, with 
its back turned to Paris, its eyes on the boundless coun- 
try. As a matter of course, I came back to his picture. 
‘Oh, Monsieur Courajod, what talent you showed. If 
you onlv knew how much we all admire you. You are 
one of our illustrations; you’ll remain the ancestor of us 
all.’ His lips had begun to shake again ; he looked at 
me with his air of terror-stricken stupidity ; I am sure 
he would not have waved me back with a more implor- 
ing gesture if I had unearthed under his very eyes the 
corpse of some forgotten comrade of his youth ; he kept 
chewing disconnected words between his toothless 
gums; it was the mumbling of an old man, who has 
sunk into second childhood, and whom it’s impossible to 
understand. ‘Don’t know — so long ago — too old — don’t 
care a rap.’ To make a long story short, he showed me 


THE DEAD CHILD.’ 


325 


the door; I heard him hurriedly turn the key in the 
lock, barricading himself and his animals against the 
tentative admiration of the outside world. Ah, my boy, 
this great man ending his life like a retired grocer ; this 
voluntary return into ‘nothingness’ before his death. 
Ah, the glory, the glory for which we others are ready 
to die! ” 

Claude’s voice, more and more hushed, died away at 
last in a melancholy sigh. Darkness was still coming 
on, its flow, gradually collected at first in the corners, was 
rising like a slow, inexorable tide, submerging the legs 
of the chairs and the table, all the confusion of things 
littering the tiled floor. The lower part of the picture 
was already becoming dim, and Claude, with his eyes 
still desperately fixed on it, seemed to be watching the 
progress of the darkness as if he had at last judged his 
work in the agonizing daylight; while there was no 
sound but the stertorous breathing of the sick child, near 
whom there still loomed the dark outline of the mother, 
motionless. 

Then Sandoz spoke in his turn, his hands also crossed 
behind his head, his back resting against one of the 
cushions of the couch: 

“Does one ever know? Would it not be better, per- 
haps, to live and die unknown? What a sell it would 
be if this glory of the artist no more existed than the 
paradise talked about in catechisms and which even 
children now make fun of. We, who no longer believe 
-in the divinity, still believe in our own immortality. 
What a farce I ” 

And with the melancholy of the pervading gloom 
stealing over him, he confessed himself, he spoke of his 
own tortures, stirred by all the human suffering he 
beheld ; 

“Look here, old boy, I, whom you envy, perhaps; yes 
I, who am beginning to get on in the world as middle- 
class people say, I, who publish books agd earn a little 


326 “THE DEAD CHILD.’’ 

money — well, I am being killed by it all. I have often 
already repeated tins to you, but you don’t believe me, 
because, as you only turn out work with a deal of trouble 
and cannot bring yourself into public notice, happiness 
in your eyes could naturally consist in producing a great 
deal, in being seen, and praised or slated. Well, get 
admitted to the next Salon, get into the thick of the 
battle, paint other pictures, and then tell me whether 
that suffices, and whether you are happy at last. Listen: 
work has taken up the whole of my existence. Little 
by little, it has robbed me of my mother, of my wife, of 
everything I love. It is the germ thrown into the 
cranium, which feeds on the brain, finds its way into the 
trunk and limbs, and gnaws up the whole of the body. 
The moment I jump out of bed of a morning, work 
clutches hold of me, rivets me to my desk without leav- 
ing me time to get a breath of fresh air; then it pursues 
me at luncheon ; I audibly chew my sentences with my 
bread. Next it accompanies me when I go out, comes 
back with me and dines off the same plate as myself; 
lies down with me on my pillow, so utterly pitiless that 
I am never able to set the book in hand on one side; 
indeed, its growth continues even in the depth of my 
sleep. And nothing outside of it exists for me. True, 
I go up-stairs to embrace my mother, but so absent- 
minded that ten minutes after leaving her, I ask myself 
whether I have really been to wish her good-morning. 
My poor wife has no husband; I am not with her even 
when our hands touch. Sometimes I have an acute 
feeling that I am making their lives very sad, and I feel 
very remorseful, for happiness is solely composed of 
kindness, frankness and gayety in one’s household; but 
how can I escape from the claws of the monster? I at 
once relapse into the somnambulism of the working 
hours, into the indifference and moroseness of my fixed 
,idea. If the pages, written during the morning, have 
been worked off all right, so much the better ; if one of 


THE DEAD CHILD.’ 


327 


them lias remained in distress, so much the worse. The 
household will laugh or cry according to the whim of 
the all-devouring monster — work! No, no! I have noth- 
ing that I can call my own. In my days of poverty I 
dreamt of rest in the country, of travel in distant lands ; 
and now that I might realize these dreams, the work 
that has been begun keeps me shut up. There is no 
chance of a walk in the morning’s sun, no chance of run- 
ning round to a friend’s house, of a mad bout of idleness ! 
My strength of will has gone with the rest; all this has 
become a habit. I have locked the door of the world 
behind me, and thrown the key out at the window! 
There is no longer anything in my den but my work and 
myself — it will devour me, and then there will be noth- 
ing left, nothing at all ! ” 

He left off speaking; silence reigned once more in the 
deepening gloom. Then he began again with an effort: 

“And if one were only satisfied, if one got some enjoy- 
ment out of this nigger’s life! Ah! I should like to 
know how those fellows manage, who smoke cigarettes 
and complacently stroke their beards when at work. 
Yes, it appears that there are some with whom produ- 
cing is an easy pleasure, to be set aside or taken up with- 
out the least excitement. They are delighted, they 
admire themselves, they cannot write a couple of lines 
without these lines being of a rare, distinguished, match- 
less quality. How can a man be sufficiently wanting in 
self-doubt as to believe in himself? It absolutely 
amazes me to see fellows, who furiously deny talent to 
every one else, lose all critical acumen, all common 
sense, when it becomes a question of their own offspring. 
Why, a book is always very ugly. To like it one 
mustn’t have pottered about in the cooking of it. I say 
nothing of the jugsfull of insults showered upon you. 
Instead of annoying, they rather encourage me. I see 
men who are upset by attacks, who feel the humiliating 
want of winning sympathy. It is a simple question of 


828 


THE DEAD CHILD.’ 


temperament; some women would die if they failed to 
please. But insult is a very good medicine to take; 
unpopularity is a very manly school to be brought up in. 
Nothing keeps one in such good health and strength as 
the hooting of a crowd of imbeciles. It suffices that a 
man can say that he has given his life’s blood to his 
work; that he expects neither immediate justice nor 
serious attention; that he works without hope of any 
kind, and simply because the love of work beats beneath 
his skin like his heart, irrespective of any will of his own. 
If he can do all this, he may die in the effort with the 
consoling illusion that he will be appreciated one day or 
other. Ah, if the others only knew how jauntily I bear 
the burden of their anger. Only there is my own choler, 
which overwhelms me; I fret that I cannot live for a 
moment happy. What hours of misery, great heavens I 
from the very day I begin a novel. During the first 
chapters there is not much trouble. I have plenty of 
room before me in which to display genius. But after- 
wards I become distracted, never satisfied with the daily 
task; already condemning the book before it is finished, 
judging it inferior to its elders; torturing myself about 
certain pages, about certain sentences, certain words, so 
that at last the very commas assume an ugly look from 
which I suffer. And when it is finished — ah ! when it is 
finished, what a reliefi Not the enjoyment of the gentle- 
man who exalts himself in the worship of his offspring, 
but the oath of the laborer who throws down the burden 
that breaks his back. Then it recommences; it will, 
always recommence, and I shall die under it, furious 
with myself, exasperated at not having had more talent, 
enraged at not leaving a ‘work’ more complete, of 
greater dimensions, books upon books, a heap of moun- 
tain height. And at my death I shall feel horrible 
doubts about the task accomplished, asking myself 
whether I ought not have gone to the left when I went 


THE DEAD CHILD.’ 


329 


to the right, and my last word, my last grasp, will be to 
recommence the whole over again!” 

He was thoroughly moved; the words stuck in his 
throat; he was obliged to draw breath for a moment, 
before delivering himself of his passionate cry in which 
all his impenitent lyricism took wing: 

“Ah, life! a second span of life, who shall give it to 
me that work may rob me of it again — that I may die 
of it once more? ” 

It had now become quite dark; the mother’s rigid 
silhouette was no longer visible; the hoarse breathing of 
the child emerged from the obscurity like a terrible and 
distant signal of distress, uprising from the streets. In 
the whole of the studio, which had become lugubriously 
black, the big canvas only retained a glimpse of pallidity, 
a last remnant of waning daylight. The figure, similar 
to an agonizing vision, seemed to be floating about, with- 
out definite shape, thedegs having already vanished, one 
arm being already submerged, the only part distinct 
being the flesh which shone like a silvery moon. 

After a protracted silence, Sandoz asked : 

“Shall I go with you when you take your picture?” 

Getting no answer from Claude^ he fancied he could 
hear him crying. Was it with the same infinite sadness, 
the despair by which he himself had been stirred just 
now ? He waited for a mon*ent, then repeated his ques- 
tion, and the painter, after having choked down a sob, 
stammered at last : 

“ Thanks, the picture will remain here ; I sha’n’t send 
it.” 

“ What I you had made up your mind?” 

“Yes, yes, I had made up my mind. But I had not 
seen it as I saw it just now in the waning daylight. I 
have failed with it, failed with it again — ^it struck my 
eyes like a blow from a fist, it went to my very heart.” 

His tears now flowed slow and scalding in the gloom 
that hid him from sight. He had been restraining 


330 


THE DEAD CHILD. 


hinjself, and the drama, the silent anguish of which 
had consumed him, had burst forth despite his efforts. 

“ My poor friend,” sighed Sandoz, altogether upset, 
“it is hard to tell you so, but all the same you are right, 
perhaps, to finish certain bits rather more. Still I am 
angry with myself, for I shall imagine that it’s I who 
discouraged you by my everlasting and stupid discon- 
tent with things.” 

Claude simply answered: 

“You! What an ideal I w^as not even listening to 
you! No; I w^as looking at everything going helter- 
skelter in this confounded canvas. The light was dying 
away, and at one moment, in the grayish dusk, the scales 
dropped suddenly from my eyes ; the background alone 
is pretty; the woman is altogether too loud; wdiat’s 
more, she’s out of the perpendicular and badly drawn — 
when I noticed that, ah ! it was enough to kill me there 
and then; I felt life dropping out of me. Then the 
gloom kept rising and rising, a whirling sensation, a 
foundering of everything, the earth rolling into chaos, 
the end of the world. And look, look! there now 
remains nothing of her, not a glimpse ; she is dead, 
quite black ! ” 

And, in fact, the picture had at last entirely disap- 
peared. But the painter had risen and could be heard 
swearing in the dense obscurity. 

“D n it all, it doesn’t matter! I’ll set to work at 

it again ! ” 

Christine, who had also risen from her chair, against 
which he stumbled, interrupted him, saying: 

“Take care. I’ll light the lamp.” 

She lighted it and came back very pale, casting a 
look of hatred and fear on the picture. It was not to 
go then? The abomination was to begin once more ! 

“I’ll set to work at it again,” repeated Claude, “and 
it shall kill me, it shall kill my wife, my child, the whole 
lot; but, by Heaven, it shall be a masterpiece!” 


THE DEAD CHILD.’ 


831 


Christine sat down again; they approached Jacques, 
who had thrown the clothes off once more in the fever- 
ish groping of his small hands. He was still breathing 
heavily, lying quite inert, his head buried in the pillow 
like a weight with which the bed seemed to creak. 
When on the point of going, Sandoz expressed his 
uneasiness. The mother appeared stupefied ; while the 
father had already returned to his picture, the master- 
piece to be created, the impassioned ideal of which out- 
weighed with him the painful reality of the sufferings 
of his child, this living flesh of his flesh. 

On the following morning, Claude had just finished 
dressing, when he heard the frightened voice of Chris- 
tine. She also had just woke up with a start from the 
heavy sleep which had benumbed her while she sat 
watching the sick child. 

“Claude! Claude! oh! look. He is dead!” 

He rushed forward, with heavy eyes, stumbling, with- 
out seeming to understand, repeating with an air of pro- 
found surprise: “ What do you mean by he is dead?” 

For a moment they remained staring wildl}' at the 
bed. The poor little fellow, with his disproportionate 
head — the head of the progeny of genius, so exagger- 
ated as to verge upon cretinism — did not appear to have 
stirred since the night before, only his mouth, which 
had widened and become discolored, breathed no longer, 
and his glassy eyes had opened. His father laid his 
hands upon him and found him icy cold. 

“It is true; he is dead.” 

And their stupor was such that for yet another 
moment they remained with their eyes dry, merely 
struck, as it were, by the abruptness of the event which 
they considered incredible. 

Then, her knees bending under her, Christine drop- 
ped down in front of the bed, bursting into violent sobs 
which shook her from head to foot, wringing her hands, 
lier forehead pressed against the mattress. In that first 


832 


THE DEAD CHILD.’ 


moment of horror her despair was aggravated above all 
by poignant remorse — the remorse of not having suffi- 
ciently cared for the poor child. Former days started up 
before her in a rapid vision, each bringing with it regret- 
fulness for unkind words, deferred caresses, rough treat- 
ment even. And now it was all over; she would never 
be able to compensate him for the affection she had 
withheld from him. He whom she thought so disobe- 
dient had but too well obeyed at last. She had so often 
told him when at play to be still, and not to disturb his 
father in his work, that he was quiet at last, and forever. 
The idea suffocated her; each sob drew from her a 
stifled cry. 

Claude had begun to walk up and down the studio, 
unable to remain still. With his features convulsed, he 
shed but large, unfrequent tears, which he regularly 
brushed away with the back of his hand. And when he 
passed in front of the little corpse he could not help 
glancing at it. The glassy eyes, wide open, seemed 
to exercise a spell over him. At first he resisted, but 
the confused idea assumed shape and would not be 
shaken off. He yielded at last, took a small canvas, and 
began a study of the dead child. For the first few min- 
utes his tears dimmed his sight, wrapping everything in ^ 
a mist; but he kept wiping them away, and stuck to his 
work although his brush shook. Then the passion for 
work dried his tears and steadied his hand, and in a 
little while it was no longer his icy son that was lying 
there, but merely a model, a subject, the strange interest 
of which stirred him. This exaggerated shape of the 
head, the waxy tint of the flesh, those eyes looking like 
holes staring into space, everything excited him, warmed 
him with a flame. He stepped back, seemed to derive 
pleasure from what he was doing, and vaguely smiled at 
his work. 

When Christine rose from her knees, she found him 


THE DEAD CHILD.’ 


833 


u 


occupied in this way. Then, bursting into tears again! 
she only said : 

“Ah! you Can paint him now, he’ll never stir again.’^ 

For five hours Claude kept at it, and on the second 
day, when Sandoz came back with him from the ceme- 
tery, after the funeral, he shuddered with pity and 
admiration at the sight of the small canvas. It was one 
of the fine bits of former days, a masterpiece of limpidity 
and power, to which was added a note of boundless 
melancholy, the end of everything; life ebbing away 
with the death of that child. 

But Sandoz, who had burst out into exclamations full 
of praise, was quite taken aback on hearing Claude say 
to him: 

“You are sure you like it? In that case, as the other 
machine isn’t ready, I’ll send this to the Salon ! ” 


834 


PASSED SILENTLY BY. 


CHAPTEK X. 

PASSED SILENTLY BY. 

C LAUDE had taken “The Dead Child” to the Palais 
de ITndustrie on the day before, when, one morn- 
ing, while roaming round about the Parc Monceau he 
came upon Fagerolles. 

“What!” said the latter cordially, “is it you, old 
fellow? What’s becoming ofyou? What are you doing? 
We see so little of each other now.” 

Then Claude having mentioned what he had sent to 
the Salon — that little canvas which his mind was full of 
— Fagerolles added: 

“Ah! you’ve sent something; then I’ll get it ‘hung’ 
for you. You know that I’m a candidate for the hang- 
ing committee this year.” 

Indeed, amid the tumult and everlasting discontent of 
the artists, after attempts at reform, repeated a score of 
times and then abandoned, the authorities had just 
invested the exhibitors with the privilege of'electing the 
members of the hanging committee; and this had 
quite upset the world of painters and sculptors, a perfect 
electoral fever had set in with ambitious cabals and 
intrigues, all the low jobbery by which politics are 
dishonored. 

“I’m going to take you with me,” continued Fage- 
rolles; “you must come and see how I’m settled in my 
little house, in which you haven’t yet set foot, in spite 
of all your promises. It’s there, hard by, at the corner 
of the Avenue de Yilliers.” 

Claude, whose arm he had gayly taken,, was obliged 


PASSED SILENTLY BY. 


835 


to follow him. He was seized with a fit of cowardice; 
this idea that his old chum might get his picture “hung” 
for him filled him with shame and desire at the ^ame 
time. On reaching the avenue, he stopped in front of 
the house to look at its frontage, a bit of coquettish, 
precioso architectural tracery — the exact copy of a 
Kenaissance house at Bourges, with lattice windows, a 
staiTcase tower and a roof decked with leaden ornaments. 
It was a perfect woman’s jewel; and Claude was struck 
with surprise when, on turning round, he perceived Irma 
Becot’s regal mansion just over the way — the mansion 
where he had spent a night, the memory of which abided 
with him like a dream. Vast, substantial, almost severe 
of aspect, it retained the importance of a palace in front 
of its neighbor the artist, obliged to limit himself to a 
fanciful nick-nack. 

“That Irma, eh?” said Fagerolles with just a shade 
of respect in his tone. “She has got a cathedral and no 
mistake! Well, you see I only sell paintings! But 
come in.” 

The interior of Fagerolles’ house was strangely and 
magnificently luxurious; with old tapestry, old weapons, 
a heap of old furniture, Chinese and Japanese curios dis- 
played even in the very hall. On the left there was a 
dining-room, panelled with lacquer work and with its 
ceiling draped with a red dragon; and then there was a 
staircase of carved wood above which banners drooped, 
whilst tropical plants rose up like plumes. Overhead, 
the studio was a marvel, rather small and, without a 
picture visible, the walls being entirely covered with 
Oriental hangings, while at one end rose up a huge 
chimney-piece with chimerical monsters supporting the 
dorsal, and at the other extremity, a vast couch under 
a tent — the latter quite a monument, with lances 
upholding the sumptuously draped dais, above a collec- 
tion of carpets, furs and cushions heaped together almost 
on a level with the flooring. 


336 


PASSED SILENTLY BY. 


Claude looked at it all, and there came to his lips a 
question which he held back: Was all this paid for? 
Fagerolles, who had been decorated with the Legion of 
Honor the year before, now demanded, it was said, ten 
thousand francs for painting a mere portrait. Naudet, 
who, after launching him, duly turned his success to 
profit in a methodical fashion, never let one of his pic- 
tures go for less than twenty, thirty, . forty thousand 
francs. Orders would have fallen on the painter’s 
shoulders as thick as hail, if he had not affected the dis- 
dain, the weariness of the man whose slightest sketches 
are fought for. And yet all this display of luxury 
smacked of indebtedness, there was only so much paid 
on account to the upholsterers ; all the money, this 
money won by lucky strokes like on ’Change, slipped 
through the artist’s fingers, and was spent without any 
trace of it remaining. Moreover, Fagerolles, still in the 
full flash of his sudden good fortune, did not calculate or 
worry, being confident that he would always sell his 
works at higher and higher prices, and feeling glorious 
at the high position he was acquiring in contemporary 
art. 

Eventually, Claude espied a little canvas on an ebony 
easel, draped with red plush. Excepting a rosewood 
tube case and a box of crayons, forgotten on an article 
of furniture, nothing reminding one of the profession 
could be seen lying about. 

“Yery finely treated,” said Claude, wishing to be 
amiable, as he stood in front of the little canvas. 
“And is your picture for the Salon sent?” 

“Ah I yes, thank heaven! What a number of people 
I had here I A perfect procession which kept me on my 
legs from morning till evening during a week. I didn’t 
want to exhibit, as it lowers one, and Naudet also 
opposed it. But what would you have? I was so beg- 
ged and prayed; all the young fellows want to set me on 
the committee, so that I may undertake their defence. 


PASSED SILENTLY BY. 


337 


Oh! my picture is simple enough. I call it ‘A Picnic.’ 
There are a couple of gentlemen and three ladies under 
some trees — guests at some chateau, who have brought 
a collation and are eating it in a glade. You’ll see, it’s 
rather original.” 

He spoke in a hesitating manner, and when his eyes 
met those of Claude, who was looking at him fixedly, he 
lost countenance altogether, and joked about the little 
canvas on the easel. 

“That’s a daub Naudet' asked me for. Oh I I’m not 
ignorant of what I lack — a little of what you have too 
much of, old man. You know that I’m still your friend 
— why, I defended you only yesterday when I was with 
some painters.” 

He tapped on Claude’s shoulders, he had divined his 
old master’s secret contempt, and wished to win him 
back with his old-time caresses. Very sincerely and 
with a sort of anxious deference, he again promised 
Claude that he would do everything in his power to 
further the hanging of his picture. 

However, some peoj)le arrived, more than fifteen per- 
sons came in and went off in less than an hour — fathers 
bringing young pupils, exhibitors anxious to say a good 
word on their own behalf, friends who wanted to truck 
influence, even women who placed their talents under 
the protection of their charms. And you should have 
seen the painter play his part as a candidate, prodigal 
with handshakes, saying to one visitor: “Your picture 
this year is so pretty, it pleases me so much;” feigning 
astonishment with another : “ What I you haven’t had a 

medal yet?” and repeating to all of them: “Ah! if I 
belonged to the committee, how I’d make them walk 
straight! ” He sent every one away delighted, closed the 
door behind each visitor with an air of extreme amia- 
bility, through which, however, there pierced the secret 
sneer of the ex-lounger on the pavement. 

“You see, eh?” he said to Claude, at a moment when 

21 


888 


PASSED SILENTLY BY. 


they happened to be 'left alone. “What a lot of time I 
have to lose with those idiots!” 

Then he approached the large window, and abruptly 
opened one of the casements; and on the other side of 
the avenue, on one of the balconies of the house over 
the way, a white figure, a woman clad in a lace dress- 
ing-gown, could be distinguished waving her handker- 
chief. Fagerolles on his side waved his hand three times 
in succession. Then both windows were closed again. 

Claude had recognized Irma; and amid the silence 
which had fallen Fagerolles quietly explained matters: 

“It’s convenient, you see, one can correspond. We 
have a complete system of telegraphy. She wants me, 
so I must go. Ah 1 old fellow, there’s a girl who could 
give us lessons 1 ” 

“Lessons in what?” 

“Why, in everything! What art, intelligence she 
has! If I told you that it was she who makes me 
paint! Yes, ’pon my word, she has an extraordinary 
scent of success! And, withal, still so funny, so amusing 
when she takes it into her head to love you.” 

Two little red patches of flame had risen to his cheeks, 
whilst a kind of stirred-up slush bleared his eyes for a 
moment. Since he and Irma had resided in the avenue, 
they again lived on their old footing. It was even said 
that he, so cunning, so well acquainted with Parisian 
humbug, let himself be fleeced by her, bled at every 
moment of some good round sum, which she sent her 
maid to ask for — to pay a tradesman, to satisfy a whim, 
often for nothing at all, or rather for the sole pleasure 
of empt 3 nng his pockets; and this partly explained his 
embarrassed circumstances, his indebtedness ever increas- 
ing despite the continuous rise in the quotations of his 
canvases. Moreover, he wasn’t unaware of the fact that 
he was her superfluity, a fancy which, with her partial- 
ity for painting, she satisfied behind the backs of serious 
protectors. She joked over it; there was, so to say, the 


PASSED SILENTLY BY. 


339 


corpse of tlieir perversity between them, a kind of zest 
about the affair which made him laugh, forgetful of all 
the money he gave her. 

Claude had put on his hat again. Fagerolles was 
shuffling about impatiently, looking nervously at the 
house over the way. 

“ I don’t send you off*, but you see she’s waiting for 
me,” he said. “Well, it’s understood, your aff'air’s set- 
tled, that is, unless I’m not elected. Come to the Palais 
de I’lndustrie on the evening the voting papers are 
counted. Oh 1 there’s a regular crush, quite a rumpus I 
Still you would always learn if you could rely on me.” 

At first, Claude inwardly swore that he would not 
disturb himself. Fagerolles’ protection weighed heavily 
upon him; and yet, in his heart of hearts, he really had 
but one fear, that the shifty fellow would not keep his 
promise, but would be ultimately seized with cowardice 
at the idea of protecting the defeated. However, on the 
day of the vote, Claude could not keep still, but went 
and roamed about the Champs Ely sees under the pre- 
tence of taking a long walk. He might as well go there 
as elsewhere, for, while secretly waiting for the Salon, 
he had altogether ceased work. He himself could not 
vote, as it was necessary to have been “hung” on at 
least one occasion. However, he repeatedly passed 
before the Palais de I’lndustrie, the foot pavement in 
front of it interesting him with its turbulent aspect, its 
procession of artist electors whom men in dirty blouses 
seized hold of, shouting out the titles of their lists of 
candidates, lists some thirty in number emanating from 
every coterie, and representing every opinion — the list 
of the studios of the School of Arts, the liberal list, the 
list of the uncompromising radical painters, the concilia- 
tory list, the young painters’ list, and even the ladies’ 
list. One would have said it was a scene of electoral 
madness at the door of a polling booth on the morrow 
of a riot. 


340 


PASSED SILENTLY BY. 


At four o’clock in tlie afternoon, when the voting was 
over, Claude could not resist a fit of curiosity to go and 
have a look. The staircase was now free, and whoever 
chose could enter. Up-stairs, he came upon the vast 
gallery, overlooking the Champs Elysees, which was set 
aside for the hanging committee. A table, twelve 
metres long, filled the centre of this apartment, and 
entire trees were burning in the monumental fire- 
place at one end of it. And some four or five hundred 
electors, who had remained to see the votes counted, 
stood there, mingled with friends and inquisitive stran- 
gers, talking very loud, laughing and letting a stormy 
rumble loose under the lofty ceiling. Around the table, 
parties of people who had volunteered to count the 
votes were already settled and at work ; there were some 
fifteen of these parties in all, each comprising a chair- 
man and two scrutineers. Three or four more remained 
to be organized, and nobody else offered assistance; in 
fact, every one fled in fear of the crushing labor which 
riveted zealous people to the spot throughout a part of 
the night. 

It precisely happened that Fagerolles, who had been 
in the breach since the morning, was gesticulating and 
shouting, trying to make himself heard above the hubbub. 

“ Come, gentlemen, we need one more man here I Come, 
some willing person, over here!” 

And at that moment perceiving Claude, he darted for- 
ward and forcibly dragged him oft*. 

“Ah! as for you, you will just oblige me by sitting 
down there and helping us ! It’s for the good cause, dash 
it all!” 

Claude abruptly found himself chairman of one of the 
counting committees, and performed his functions with the 
gravity of a timid man, feeling some emotion in his 
secret heart, and looking as if he bolieved that the hang- 
ing of his canvas would depend upon the conscientious- 
ness he showed in this work. He called out the names 


PASSED SILENTLY BY. 


341 


inscribed upon the voting-papers, wbicli were passed to 
him in little packets, while the scrutineers noted down, 
on sheets of paper prepared for the purpose, each succes- 
sive vote that each candidate obtained. And this went 
on in a most frightful uproar, in the noise, rattling like 
hail, caused by twenty, thirty names being called out at 
the same time by different voices, amid the continuous 
rumbling of the crowd. As Claude could never do any- 
thing without throwing passion into it, he waxed excited, 
became despondent whenever a voting-paper did not bear 
Fagerolles’ name, and grew happy as soon as he had to 
shout out that name once more. Moreover, he often 
tasted this delight, for his friend had made himself pop- 
ular, showing himself everywhere, frequenting the cafes 
where influential groups of artists assembled, even ven- 
turing to expound his opinions, engaging himself with 
the young artists, without neglecting to bow very low to 
the members of the Institute. There was a general cur- 
rent of sympathy. Fagerolles was, so to say, everybody’s 
spoilt child. 

Night came on at about six o’clock on this rainy March 
day. The assistants brought lamps; and some mistrust- 
ful artists, gloomy, silent figures watching the counting 
askance, drew nearer. Others began to play jokes, imi- 
tated the cries of animals, or launched out an attempted 
tyrolienne. But it was only at eight o’clock when a 
collation — cold meat and wine — was served that the gay- 
ety became overflowing. The bottles were violently 
emptied, fellows stuffed themselves with whatever they 
were lucky enough to get hold of, there was a free-and- 
easy kind of Kerrnesse in this vast hall which the logs in 
the fire-place lit up with a forge-like glow. Then they 
all smoked, and the smoke bedimmed the yellow light 
from the lamps with a kind of mist; whilst on the floor 
there trailed the voting-papers thrown away during the 
polling; indeed, a thick layer of dirty paper, together 
with corks, crumbs of bread and a few broken plates. 


842 


PASSED SILENTLY BY. 


quite a litter, in wliicTi the heels of those at the table dis: 
appeared. Keserve was cast aside; a little sculptor with 
a pale face climbed on to a chair to harangue the assem- 
bled people, and a painter, with stiff moustaches under a 
hook nose, bestrode a chair and galloped round the table, 
bowing, and caricaturing the emperor. 

Little by little, however, a good many grew tired and 
went off*. At eleven o’clock there were not more than a 
couple of hundred persons present. Past midnight, how- 
ever, some more people arrived, loungers in dress-coats 
and white ties, who had come from some theatre or 
soiree, stung with the desire to learn the result of the 
voting before all Paris knew it. Eeporters also arrived; 
and they could be seen darting one by one out of the room 
as soon as a partial result was communicated to them. 

Claude, hoarse by now, still called out the names. The 
smoke and the heat were becoming intolerable, a smell 
like that of a cow-house rose up from the muddy litter on 
the floor. One o’clock, two o’clock in the morning 
struck. He still unfolded, unfolded the voting-papers, 
and the conscientiousness which he displayed so delayed 
him that the other parties had long since finished their 
work while his was still entangled with columns of fig- 
ures. At last, all the additions were centralized, and the 
definitive result proclaimed. Fagerolles was elected, 
coming fifteenth among forty, or five places ahead of Bon- 
grand, who had been a candidate on the same list, but 
whose name must have been frequently struck out. And 
daylight was breaking when Claude reached home in the 
Kue Tourlaque, worn out and delighted at the same time. 

Then, during a couple of weeks, he lived in anxiety. 
A dozen times he had the idea of going to Fagerolles’ 
for information, but a feeling of shame restrained him. 
Besides, as the committee proceeded in alphabetical 
order, nothing perhaps was yet decided. However, one 
evening, on the Boulevard de Clichy, he felt his heart 
thump as he saw two broad shoulders, with whose 


PASSED SILENTLY BY. 


843 


lolloping motion he was well acquainted, coming 
towards him. 

•They were the shoulders of Bongrand, who seemed 
embarrassed. He was the first to spea^ and said: 

“You know matters aren’t progressing very well over 
there with those brutes. But everything isn’t lost. 
Fagerolles and I are on the watch. And you must rely 
on Fagerolles, for as for me, my dear fellow, I am awfully 
afraid of compromising your chances.” 

To tell the truth, there was a constant hostility 
between Bongrand and the president of the hanging 
committee, Mazel, a famous master of the School of Arts, 
and the last rampart of elegant buttery conventionality. 
Although they called each other “dear colleague,” and 
made a show of exchanging handshakes, their mutual 
hostility had burst forth on the very first day; one of 
them could not ask for the admission of a picture with- 
out the other one voting for its rejection. Fagerolles, 
who had been elected secretary, had, on the contrary, 
made himself Mazel’s amuser, his vice, and Mazel for- 
gave this old pupil his defection, so skilfully did the 
renegade flatter him. Moreover, the young master, a 
regular turncoat, as his comrades said, showed even 
more severity than the members of the Institute for the 
beginners, the audacious ones; and he only became 
lenient and sociable when he wanted to get a picture 
accepted, showing himself fertile in funny devices on 
those occasions, intriguing and carrying the vote with 
the supple deftness of a conjuror. 

This committee work was really a hard task, and even 
Bongrand’s strong legs grew tired. The work was cut 
out every day by the assistants, an endless row of large 
pictures resting on the ground, leaning against the hand- 
rails, and stretching away through the galleries of the 
first floor, right round the Palace; and every afternoon, 
at one o’clock precisely, the forty committee-men, headed 
by their president, equipped with a bell, started off on 


344 


PASSED SILENTLY BY. 


the same promenade, until all the initial letters in the 
alphabet had been exhausted. They gave their decisions 
standing; the work was got through as fast as possible, 
the worst canvases being rejected without going to the 
vote; at times, however, discussions delayed the party, 
there was a ten-minutes’ quarrel, and the picture which 
had caused the dispute was reserved for the evening 
revision, while two men, holding a cord ten metres long, 
stretched it tightly at a distance of four paces from the 
line of pictures, so as to keep back the flood of committee- 
men, who pushed each other in the heat of the dispute, 
and whose stomachs, despite everything, would bend the 
cord. Behind the committee marched the seventy 
museum-keepers in white blouses, executing their evolu- 
tions under the orders of a brigadier, and sorting the pic- 
tures at each decision communicated by the secretaries, 
the accepted paintings being separated from the rejected 
ones, which were carried off and laid aside like corpses 
after a battle. And the round lasted during two mortal 
hours, without respite, without there being a chair to sit 
down upon ; the committee-men had to remain all the 
while upon their legs, in a tired tramp, amid icy draughts, 
which compelled even the least chilly among them to 
bury themselves in the depths of their fur-lined over- 
coats. 

Thus the three o’clock snack was very welcome; half- 
an -hour’s rest at a buffet where claret, chocolate and 
sandwiches could be obtained. It was there that the 
market of mutual concessions was held, the bartering of 
influence and votes carried on. So that no one might 
be forgotten amid the hail-storm of applications which 
fell upon the committee-men, most of them had little 
note-books, which they consulted; and they promised to 
vote for the exhibitors that a colleague protected on 
condition that this colleague voted for the ones whom 
they were interested in. Others, however, taking no 
part in these intrigues, either from austerity or indiffer- 


PASSED SILENTLY BY. 


345 


ence, finished smoking their cigarettes, gazing vacantly 
about them. 

Then the work began again, but more agreeably, in a 
gallery where there were chairs, even tables with pens 
and paper and ink. All the pictures which did not 
reach a m^tre and a half in height were judged there — 
“passed on the easel,” as the expression goes — being 
ranged, ten or twelve together, along a kind of trestle 
covered with green baize. A good many committee-men 
grew beatifically absent-minded on their seats, several 
wrote their letters, and the president had to get angry 
to obtain presentable majorities. Sometimes a gust of 
passion swept by; they all jostled each other; the votes, 
usually given by raising the hand, took place amid such 
feverish excitement that hats and walking-sticks were 
waved in the air above the tumultuous surging of heads. 

And it was there, “on the easel,” that “The Dead 
Child ” at length made its appearance. During the last 
week Fagerolles, whose pocket-book was crammed full 
of memoranda, had resorted to all kinds of complicated 
bartering to obtain votes in Claude’s favor; but it was a 
difficult business, it did not tally with his other engage- 
ments, and he only met with refusals as soon as he men- 
tioned his friend’s name. He complained, moreover, 
that he could get no help from Bongrand, who did not 
carry a pocket-book, and who, besides, was so clumsy 
that he spoilt the best causes by outbursts of unseason- 
able frankness. A score of times already Fagerolles 
would have forsaken Claude, had it not been for his obsti- 
nate desire to try his power over his colleagues by asking 
for this admission, a reputed impossibility. People 
should see if he wasn’t yet strong enough to force the 
committee into compliance with his wishes. Moreover, 
perhaps from the depths of his conscience there came a 
cry for justice, an unconfesscd feeling of respect for the 
man whose talent he had stolen. 

As it happened, Mazel was in a frightfully bad humor 


846 


PASSED SILENTLY BY. 


tliat day. At tlie outset of tlie sitting the brigadier 
had come to say: 

“There was a mistake yesterday, Monsieur Mazel. A 
hors concours* picture was rejected. You know, No. 
2520, a woman under a tree.” 

In fact, on the day before, this painting had been con- 
signed to the grave amid unanimous contempt, without 
any one having noticed that it was the work of an old 
classical painter highly respected by the Institute; and 
the brigadier’s fright, this good joke of a picture con- 
demned by mistake, made the young members of the 
committee become very gay and sneer in a provoking 
manner. 

Mazel, who detested these mishaps, which he felt were 
disastrous for the authority of the School of Arts, made 
a gesture of anger, and dryly said : 

“Well, fish it out again, and put it among the admit- 
ted pictures. It isn’t so surprising, there was an intoler- 
able noise yesterday. How can one judge anything like 
that, at a gallop, when I can’t even obtain silence.” He 
rang his bell furiously, and added: “Come, gentlemen, 
everything is ready — a little good-will, if you please.” 

Unluckily, a fresh misfortune occurred as soon as the 
first paintings were set on the easel. One canvas among 
others attracted Mazel’s attention, so bad did he consider 
it, of a sharpness of tone to make one’s very teeth grate, 
and as his sight was failing him, he leant forward to look 
at the signature, muttering: 

“Who’s the swine?” 

But he quickly drew himself up, quite shaking at 
having read the name of one of his friends, an artist 
who, like himself, was a rampart of healthy principles. 
Hoping that he had not been overheard, he called out: 

“Superb! No. 1, eh, gentlemen? ” 


*A paintinp: by one of those artists who, having obtained medals at previous 
Salons, have the right to go on exhibiting as long as they live, the committee 
being debarred from rejecting their worlc, however bad it may be. 


PASSED SILENTLY BY. 


847 


No. 1 was granted tlie formula of admission which 
entitled the picture to be hung on the line. Only, some 
of the committee-mea laughed and nudged each other’s 
elbows, at which Mazel was very much hurt and became 
fierce. 

Moreover, they all did it; a great many of them eased 
their feelings at the first glance, and then recalled their 
words as soon as they had deciphered the signature. 
This ended by making them cautious, and so with a fur- 
tive glance they made sure of the artist’s name before 
expressing an opinion. Besides, whenever a colleague’s 
work, some fellow committee-man’s suspicious-looking 
canvas, was displayed, they took the precaution to warn 
each other by a sign behind the painter’s back : “ Take 

care, no mistake, mind ; it’s his work.” 

Fagerolles, despite his colleagues’ fidgety nerves, car- 
ried the day on the first occasion. It was a question of 
admitting a frightful portrait painted by one of his 
pupils, whose family, a very wealthy one, received him 
on a footing of intimacy. He had been obliged to take 
Mazel on one side, to try and move him by relating a 
sentimental story about an unfortunate father, with 
three daughters, who were dying of hunger; and the 
president had let himself be entreated for a long while : 
Dash it all, a man shouldn’t waste his time painting 
when he is dying of hunger! He ought not to abuse 
his three daughters to such a point as that! However, 
in the result, Mazel raised his hand, alone, with Fage- 
rolles. Some of the others at once protested, and 
became angry, even two other members of the Institute 
seemed revolted, whereupon Fagerolles whispered to 
them in a very low key: 

“ It’s for Mazel ! He begged me to vote. A relative 
of bis, I think! At all events he greatly wants the 
picture to be accepted.” 

And then the two academicians promptly raised their 


348 


PASSED SILENTLY BY. 


hands, and a great majority declared itself in favor of 
the portrait. 

But laughter, witticisms, indignant cries resounded. 
“The Dead Child” had just been placed on the easel. 
Were they to have the Morgue sent to them now? 
And while the old men drew back in alarm, the younger 
ones scofied at the child’s big head, which was plainly 
that of a monkey who had died from trying to swallow 
a gourd. 

Fagerolles at once realized that the game was lost. At 
first he tried to spirit the vote away by joking, in accor- 
dance with his skilful tactics: 

“Come, gentlemen, an old combatant — ” 

Furious exclamations cut him short. Oh, no! not 
that one! They knew him, that old combatant! A 
madman who had been persevering in his obstinacy for 
fifteen years, a proud fellow who posed for being a 
genius, who had talked about demolishing the Salon, 
without ever sending a picture it was possible to accept. 
All their hatred of independent originality, of the 
competition of the- “shop over the way,” which fright- 
ened them, of that invincible power which triumphs 
even when seemingly defeated, resounded in the out- 
burst of their voices. No, no! Away with it! 

Then Fagerolles himself made the mistake of getting 
irritated, giving way to the anger he felt on finding what 
little real influence he possessed. 

“You are unjust; at least be impartial,” he said. 

Thereupon the tumult reached its full height. He 
was surrounded, jostled, arms waved about in threaten- 
ing fashion, and phrases were shot out like bullets. 

“You dishonor the committee, monsieur!” 

“If you defend that thing, it’s to get your name in the 
newspapers.” 

“You aren’t competent to speak on the subject.” 

And Fagerolles, beside himself, losing even the 
pliancy of his bantering disposition, replied : 


PASSED SILENTLY BY. 


349 


“ I’m as competent as you are.” 

“Shut up!” resumed a comrade, a very irascible little 
painter, with a fair complexion. “You are surely not 
going to try and make us swallow such a turnip as 
that 1 ” 

Yes, yes, a turnip! They all repeated the word with 
conviction, this word which they usually cast at the worst 
smudges, at the pale, cold, glareous painting of daubers. 

“ All right,” at last said Fagerolles, with his teeth 
clenched. “ I demand the vote.” 

Since the decision had become envenomed, Mazel had 
been unceasingly ringing his bell, very much flushed at 
finding his authority ignored. 

“Gentlemen, come, gentlemen; it’s extraordinary that 
one can’t settle matters without shouting — I beg of you, 
gentlemen — ” 

At last he obtained a little silence. In reality, he was 
not a bad-hearted man. Why should they not admit 
this little picture, although he himself thought it 
execrable? They admitted so many others! 

“Come, gentlemen, the vote is asked for.” 

He himself was, perhaps, about to raise his hand, 
when Bongrand, who had hitherto been silent, with the 
blood rising to his cheeks in the anger he was trying to 
restrain, abruptly went off like a pop-gun, and most 
unseasonably gave vent to this cry of his rebellious con- 
science : 

“ But, curse it all ! there are not four among us capa- 
ble of turning out such a piece of work!” 

Some grunts sped around, but the sledge-hammer 
blow had come upon them with such force that no one 
answered. 

“Gentlemen, the vote is asked for,” repeated Mazel, 
who had turned pale, in a dry voice. 

And his tone sufficed to explain everything; it was 
the latent hatred of Bongrand, the fierce rivalry hidden 
under seemingly good-natured handshakes. Matters 


350 


PASSED SILENTLY BY. 


rarely came to such a pass as this quarrelling. They 
almost always arranged matters. But in the depths of 
their ravaged pride there were wounds which always 
bled, duels with the knife which tortured them with 
agony, despite the smile upon their lips. 

Bongrand and Fagerolles, alone, raised their hands, 
and “The Dead Child,” being rejected, only had the 
chance of being rescued at the general revision. 

This general revision was the terrible part of the 
task. Although, after twenty days’ continuous sitting, 
the committee allowed itself forty-eight hours’ rest,, so 
as to enable the keepers to prepare the work, it could 
not help shuddering on the alfernoon when it came upon 
the assemblage of the three thousand rejected paintings, 
from among which it had to rescue as many canvases as 
were necessary for the regulation total of two thousand 
five hundred works admitted to be complete. Ah! 
these three thousand pictures, placed one after the other 
against the walls of all the galleries, including the outer 
one, in fact everywhere, even on the floors, lying there 
like stagnant pools, between which the attendants had 
devised little paths running alongside the frames — ’twas 
an inundation, a deluge, which rose up, invaded the 
whole Palais de Justice, and submerged it beneath the 
murky flow of all the mediocrity and madness to be 
found in the stream of art. And but a single sitting 
was held, from one till seven o’clock, six hours of wild 
galloping through this maze! At first they held out 
against fatigue, their vision clear; but this forced march 
soon made their legs give way, their eyesight was irri- 
tated by all these dancing colors, and yet it was still 
necessary to march on, to look and judge, even until 
they broke down with fatigue. By four o’clock the 
march was like a rout, the scattering of a defeated army. 
Some committee-men dragged themselves along, out of 
breath, very far in the rear; others, isolated, lost amid 
the frames, followed the narrow paths, renouncing all 


PASSED SILENTLY BY. 


351 


prospect of emerging from them, turning round and 
round without any hope of ever getting to the end! 
How could they be just and impartial, good heavens! 
What could they select from amid this heap of horrors! 
Without clearly distinguishing a landscape from a por- 
trait, they made up the number they required in pot- 
luck fashion, so to say. Two hundred, two hundred and 
forty — another eight, they still wanted eight more. 
That one? Ho, that other. As you like. Seven, 
eight, it was over! At last they had got to the end, 
and they hobbled away, saved — free! 

In one gallery a fresh scene had drawn them round 
“ The Dead Child,” lying on the floor among other waifs. 
But this time they jested. A joker pretended to stumble 
and set his foot in the middle of the canvas, while others 
trotted along the little paths, as if trying to find out 
which was the picture’s right way up, and declaring that 
it looked much better topsy-turvy. 

Fagerolles himself also began to joke. 

“Come, a little courage, gentlemen; go the round, 
examine it, you’ll be repaid for your trouble. Eeally 
now, gentlemen, be kind, rescue it; pray do that good 
action.” 

They all grew merry in listening to him, but they 
refused more harshly than ever, amid cruel laughter. 
Ho, no, never! 

“ Will you take it for your ‘charity?’” cried a com- 
rade. 

It was a custom, the committee-men had a right to a 
“charity;” each of them could select a canvas among 
the lot, no matter how execrable it might be, and it was 
thereupon admitted without examination. As a rule, 
the bounty of this admission was bestowed upon poor 
artists. These forty paintings, rescued at the eleventh 
hour, were those of the beggars at the door, those whom 
one allowed to glide with empty stomachs to the far end 
of the table. 


352 


PASSED SILENTLY BY. 


“For my ‘ charity, repeated Fagerolles, very mucli 
embarrassed ; “the fact is, I meant to take another pain1>- 
ing for my ‘charity.’ Yes, some flowers by a lady — ” 

He was interrupted by jeers. Was she prett\^? In 
front of women’s paintings these gentlemen were prone 
to sneer, not displaying the least gallantry. And Fage- 
rolles remained perplexed, for the “lady” in question was 
a person whom Irma took an interest in. He trembled 
at the idea of the terrible scene which would ensue if he 
failed to keep his promise. An expedient occurred to 
him. 

“Well, and you, Bongrand? You might very well 
take this funny little dead child for your ‘charity.’” 

Bongrand, wounded to the heart, indignant at all this 
bartering, waved his long arms. 

“What! If I insult a real painter in that fashion? 
Let him be prouder, dash it, and never send anything to 
the Salon!” 

Then, as the others were still sneering, Fagerolles, 
desirous that victory should remain to him, made up his 
mind, with a proud air, like a fellow conscious of his 
strength, who does not fear being compromised. 

“All right. I’ll take it for my ‘charity,’” he said. 

The others shouted bravo, and gave him a bantering 
ovation, with profound bows and numerous handshakes. 
All honor to the brave fellow who had the courage of his 
opinions! And an attendant carried away in his arms 
the poor derided, jolted, soiled canvas ; and thus it was 
that a picture by the painter of “In the Open Air” was 
at last accepted by the hanging committee. 

On the very next morning a note from Fagerolles 
apprised Claude, in a couple of lines, that he had suc- 
ceeded in getting “The Dead Child” admitted, but that 
it had not been managed without trouble. Claude, des- 
pite the gladness of the tidings, felt a pang at the heart; 
this note was so brief, there was such a protecting, pity- 
ing style about it, that all the humiliating features of the 


PASSED SILENTLY BY. 


363 


business were apparent. For a moment, he felt sorry 
over this victory, so much so that he would have liked 
to take his work back and hide it. Then this delicacy 
of feeling died off, his artistic pride again gave way, so 
much did the protracted waiting for success make his 
human misery bleed. Ah I to be seen, to make his way 
despite everything! He had reached the point of final 
capitulations with conscience; he once more began to 
long for the opening of the Salon, with the feverish im- 
patience of a beginner, living in a state of illusion which 
showed him a crowd, a press of moving heads, acclaiming 
his canvas. 

By degrees Paris had decreed that the “varnishing 
day” was fashionable — that day formerly set aside for 
painters only, to come and finish off the toilets of their 
paintings. How, however, it was like early fruit; it had 
become one of those solemnities which set the city agog, 
and made it rush off in a crushing crowd. For a week 
past the newspaper press, the streets, the public had 
belonged to the artists. They held Paris in their grasp, 
the one public question was themselves, their exhibits, 
their sayings or doings, everything connected with their 
persons. It was one of those infatuations like thunder- 
bolts, the force of which raises paving stones, carried to 
such a point that bands of country folks, common sol- 
diers and nursemaids pushed through the galleries on 
days of gratuitous admission, that the alarming figure 
of fifty thousand visitors was recorded on some fine Sun- 
days, when an entire army, the rear battalions of the 
ignorant lower orders followed society, and marched, 
with eyes wide open, through this vast picture shop. 

This famous varnishing day at first frightened Claude, 
who was intimidated by the crush of fine folks which the 
newspapers spoke about, and he resolved to wait for the 
more democratic day of the real inauguration. He even 
refused to accompany Sandoz. But he was consumed by 
such a fever that he started off abruptly at as early as 
22 


354 


PASSED SILENTLY BY. 


eight o’clock in the morning, barely taking time to eat 
a bit of bread and cheese beforehand. Christine, who 
did not feel that she had the courage to go with him, 
called him back and kissed him again, anxious and 
moved. 

“And mind, my dear, don’t worry, whatever happens.” 

Claude felt somewhat oppressed as he entered the Gral- 
lery of Honor, with his heart beating fast through hav- 
ing swiftly climbed the grand staircase. There was a 
limpid May sky out of doors, and through the linen 
vellum, stretched under the glazed roof, the sun rays 
filtered in a bright white light, while the neighboring 
open doorways, communicating with the garden gallery, 
admitted moist gusts of quivering freshness. For a 
moment he drew breath in this atmosphere which was 
already growing slightly heavy, being tainted with a 
vague smell of varnish, amid the discreet scent of the 
women’s musk. At a glance he took in the pictures on 
the walls : a huge massacre scene in front of him, stream- 
ing with carmine ; a colossal, pallid, religious picture on 
the left ; a state order, the commonplace delineation of 
some official festivities on the right ; and then portraits, 
landscapes, indoor scenes, all glaring in sharp tints amid 
the fresh gilding of the frames. However, the fear 
which he retained of the famous society present at this 
solemnity led him to direct his glances on the gradually 
swelling crowd. On the circular settee, placed in the 
centre of the gallery, and from which sprang a sheaf of 
tropical foliage, there sat three ladies, three monsters, 
attired in an abominable fashion, and settled there to 
indulge in a whole day’s backbiting. Behind him he 
heard a hoarse voice crushing harsh syllables. It was 
an Englishman in a check-pattern jacket, explaining the 
massacre scene to a yellow woman, buried in the depths 
of a kind of travelling ulster. There were some vacant 
spaces, groups formed, scattered, formed again further 
on; all heads were raised; the men carried walking- 


PASSED SILENTLY BY. 


855 


sticks and overcoats over tlieir arms, the women strolled 
about slowly, showing Claude distant profiles as they 
stopped before the pictures; and his artistic eye was 
especially arrested by the flowers in their bonnets, which 
seemed very loud in tint, amid the dark waves of the 
men’s high silk hats. He perceived three priests, two 
common soldiers who had found their way there no one 
knew whence, endless processions of gentlemen decorated 
with the ribbon of the Legion of Honor, troops of young 
girls and mothers impeding all movement. However, a 
good many of these people knew each other; there were 
smiles and bows from afar, at times a rapid hand-shake 
HI passing by. The conversation was carried on in a 
discreet tone of voice, above which rose the continuous 
tramping of feet. 

Then Claude began to look for his picture. He tried 
to find his way by means of the initial letters inscribed 
above the entrances of the galleries, but made a mistake, 
and went through those on the left hand. There was a 
succession of open entrances, a deep perspective of old 
tapestry door-hangings, with glimpses of the comers of 
pictures. He went as far as the great western gallery, 
and came back by the parallel suite of smaller galleries 
without finding his letter. And when he reached the 
Gallery of Honor again, the crowd had rapidly increased, 
in fact it was already scarcely possible to move about. 
Being unable to advance, he looked around him and 
recognized painters, the nation of painters, at home 
there that day and doing the honors of its abode. 
Claude especially remarked an old friend of the Boutin 
studio — a young fellow consumed with the desire to 
advertise himself — who had been working for a medal, 
and who was now catching hold of all the visitors pos- 
sessing any influence and forcibly taking them to see his 
picture. Then there was the celebrated and wealthy 
painter who received his visitors in front of his work 
with a smile of triumph on his lips, showing himself 


356 


PASSED SILENTLY BY. 


compromisingly gallant with the ladies, who formed a 
constantly renewed court around him; then also there 
were the others, the rivals who execrate one another, 
although they shout out one another’s praises in full 
voices, the savage fellows covertly watching their com- 
rades’ success from the corner of a doorway, the timid 
ones whom you could not for an empire induce to pass 
through the gallery where their picture is hung, the 
jokers, hiding the bleeding wound of their defeat under 
an amusing witticism, the sincere ones, absorbed, trying 
to understand the various works, and already distribu- 
ting the medals. And the painters’ families were also 
there — one charming young woman accompanied by a 
coquettishly bedecked child; a sour-looking, skinny 
matron of middle-class birth, flanked by two ugly 
urchins in black ; a fat mother, who had foundered on a 
bench amid quite a tribe of dirty brats; a lady of mature 
charms, still very good looking, who, with her grown-up 
daughter, was watching a woman pass by — this woman, 
the father’s friend — and knowing each other by sight, 
they remained very calm, exchanging a smile. And 
then there were also the models — women who pulled one 
another by the sleeve, who showed each other their shapes 
in the pictorial displays, talking very loud, dressed with- 
out taste, spoiling their superb figures by such gowns 
that they seemed to be humpbacked. 

When Claude got free of the crowd, he enfiladed the 
line of doorways on the right hand. His letter was 
on this side, but he visited the galleries marked 
with an L without finding anything. Perhaps his 
canvas, gone astray, had served to fill up a vacancy 
elsewhere. Then when he had reached the large eastern 
gallery, he set off along other little galleries, a secluded 
suite visited by fewer people, where the pictures seem 
to frown with boredom, and which is the terror of 
exhibitors. There again he did not find anything. 
Bewildered, distracted, he roamed about, went out on 


PASSED SILENTLY BY. 


857 


the garden gallery, continued searching among the 
superabundant exhibits overflowing outside, pallid and 
shivering in the crude light; and eventually, after other 
distant excursions, he tumbled into the Gallery of Honor 
for the third time. 

People were now crushing each other there. All 
those who create a stir in Paris were assembled together, 
similar to a rolling swell of water ever on the increase 
— the celebrities, the wealthy, the adored, talent, money 
and grace, the masters of romance, of the drama and 
of journalism, clubmen, racing men and speculators, 
women of every category, demi-mondaines, actresses 
and society belles. And Claude, angered by his vain 
search, grew amazed at the vulgarity of the faces, seen 
like this in a mass, at the incongruity of the toilets — 
but a few of which were elegant, while so many were 
common looking — at the lack of majesty which this 
society displayed, to such a point that the fear which 
had made him tremble was changed into contempt. 
Were these the people, then, who were going to jeer at 
his picture, providing it was found again? Two little 
reporters with fair complexions were completing a list 
of persons whose names they intended to mention. A 
critic pretended to take some notes on the margin of 
his catalogue; another was holding forth in professor’s 
style in the centre of a party of beginners; a third, 
all by himself, with his hands behind his back, seemed 
rooted to one spot, crushing each work beneath his 
august impassibility. And what especially struck 
Claude was the way in which the people jostled each 
other and rushed all in the same direction like a flock 
of sheep, their banded curiosity which had nothing 
youthful or passionate about it, the bitterness of their 
voices, the weariness to be read on their faces, their 
general appearance of evil suffering. Envy was already 
at work; there was the gentleman who makes himself 
witty with the ladies; the one, who, without a word, 


358 


PASSED SILENTLY BY. 


looks, gives a terrible slirug of tbe shoulders, and then 
goes away; the two who remain for a quater of an hour, 
leaning on the hand-rail, their noses close to a little can- 
vas, whispering very low and exchanging the knowing 
glances of conspirators. 

But Fagerolles had just appeared, and amid the con- 
tinuous flowing and ebbing of the groups there seemed 
to be no one left but him, his hand outstretched, show- 
ing himself everywhere at the same time, lavishly exert- 
ing himself to play his double part as a young master 
and an influential member of the hanging committee. 
Overwhelmed with praise, thanks and complaints, he 
had an answer ready for every one without losing aught 
of his affability. Since the morning he had been with- 
standing the assaults of the petty painters of his set who 
found their pictures badly hung. It was the usual 
scamper of the first moment, every one looking for every 
one, rushing to see each other, bursting out into recrimi- 
nations, noisy, interminable fury; the picture was too 
high up, the light did not fall upon it properly, the 
paintings near by destroyed its effect; in fact, some 
talked of unhooking their works and carrying them off*. 
One tall, thin fellow was especially tenacious, going from 
gallery to gallery in pursuit of Fagerolles, who vainly 
explained that he was innocent in the matter and could 
do nothing. The order of the numbers was followed, 
the panels of each wall were laid on the ground and 
then hung up without any one being favored. He carried 
his obligingness so far as to promise his intervention 
when the galleries were re-arranged after the medals 
had been awarded, but without managing to calm the 
tall, thin fellow who still continued pursuing him. 

Claude for a moment elbowed his way through the 
crowd to go and ask Fagerolles where his picture had 
been hung. But, on seeing his friend so surrounded, 
pride restrained him. Was there not something absurd 
and painful about this constant need of another? 


PASSED SILENTLY BY. 


859 


Besides, lie suddenly reflected that he must have skip: 
ped a whole suite of galleries on the right hand side; 
and, indeed, there were fresh leagues of painting there. 
He ended by reaching a gallery where a crowd was sti- 
fling, 'collected in a compact mass in front of a large picture 
which filled the central panel of honor. At first he 
could not see it, there was such a surging sea of shoulders 
with a thick wall of heads, a rampart of hats. People 
rushed forward with gaping admiration. At length, 
however, by dint of rising on tiptoe, he perceived the 
marvel, and recognized the subject by what had been 
told him. 

It was Fagerolles’ picture. And he found his own “ In 
the Open Air ’’ in this “Picnic,” the same light key of 
color, the same artistic formula, but how softened, trick- 
ishly rendered, spoilt, with skin-deep elegance, everything 
being “arranged” with infinite skill to satisfy the low 
ideal of the public. Fagerolles had not made the mis- 
take Claude did with his three women, but had clothed 
them in the audacious toilets of women of society. As 
for the two gallant gentlemen in summer jackets, they 
realized the ideal of everything most distingud; while 
afar off a footman was pulling another hamper off the 
box of the landau drawn up behind the trees. The whole 
of it, the figures, the drapery, the bits of still life of the 
repast, stood out gayly in full sunlight, against the dark- 
ened foliage of the background; and the supreme skill 
of the painter lay in his pretended audacity, the menda- 
cious semblance of forcible treatment which upset the 
crowd just enough to send it into ecstacies — a storm in a 
pot of cream ! 

Claude, being unable to approach, listened to the 
remarks aroui^ him. At last there was one who depicted 
real truth I He did not press his points like those 
cranks of the new school ; he knew how to convey every- 
thing without showing anything. Ah! the art of know- 
ing where to draw the line, the art of letting things be 


860 


PASSED SILENTLY BY. 


divined, the respect due to the public, the approbation of 
good society I And withal such delicacy, charm and art. 
He did not unseasonably deliver himself of passionate 
things of exuberant design; no, when he had taken three 
notes from nature, he gave those three notes, nothing 
more. A newspaper man who arrived went into ecsta- 
cies and coined the expression, “A very Parisian style of 
painting.” It was repeated, and people no longer passed 
by without declaring that the picture was “very 
Parisian.” 

The swollen backs of the sight-seers, the admiring 
remarks rising from the sea of spines, ended by exasper- 
ating Claude; and seized with a longing to see the heads 
which made up a success, he doubled the throng and 
manoeuvred in such a way as to lean his back against 
the hand-rail hard by. From that point, he had the 
public in front of him in the gray light filtering through 
the linen vellum of the ceiling which kept the centre of 
the gallery in shade; whilst the brighter light, gliding 
from the edges of the blind, illumined the paintings on 
the walls with a white flow in which the gilding of the 
frames acquired the warm tint of the sun. Claude at 
once recognized the people who had formerly derided 
him: if these were not the same, they were at least their 
relatives: serious, however, and enraptured, their appear- 
ance improved by their respectful attention. That evil 
look, that weariness of the struggle, that envious bile 
drawing the skin together and dyeing it yellow, which 
he had at first remarked on their faces, all disappeared 
here in the general treat of an amiable lie. Two fat 
ladies, open-mouthed, were yawning with satisfaction. 
Some old gentlemen opened their eyes wide with a 
knowing air. A husband whisperingly explained the 
subject to his young wife, who jogged her chin with a 
pretty motion of the neck. There was every kind of 
marvelling, beatifical, astonished, profound, gay, austere, 
with unconscious smiles and languid postures of the 


PASSED SILENTLY BY. 


861 


head. The blaek silk hats were thrown back, the flow- 
ers in the women’s bonnets glided to the napes of their 
necks. And all these faces, after remaining motionless 
for a moment, were then pushed aside and replaced by 
others like them. 

Then Claude virtually forgot everything, hebetated by 
this triumph. The gallery was becoming too small, 
fresh bands constantly accumulated inside it. There 
were no more vacant spaces as there had been early in 
the morning, no more cool whiffs rising from the garden 
amid the ambient smell of varnish ; the atmosphere was 
now becoming heated and bitter with the perfumes of 
the dresses. A smell like that of a wet dog soon domi- 
nated all the others. It must have been raining outside; 
one of those sudden spring showers had no doubt fallen, 
for the last arrivals brought moisture with them, their 
clothes hung heavily and seemed to steam as soon as 
they were exposed to the heat of the gallery. And, 
indeed, dashes of darkness had for a moment been pass- 
ing above the vellum of the roof. Claude, who raised 
his eyes, guessed that large clouds were galloping 
onward lashed by the north wind, that driving rain was 
beating upon the glass panes. Moire-like shadows darted 
along the walls, all the paintings were bedimmed, the 
spectators themselves became blended in obscurity until 
the cloud was carried away, whereupon the painter saw 
the heads emerge from this twilight with the same 
mouths and eyes gaping with idiotic rapture. 

But there was another cup of bitterness in reserve for 
Claude. On the left-hand panel he perceived Bongrand’s 
picture, facing Fagerolles’. And in front of this paint- 
ing there was no crush whatever, the visitors walked by 
with an air of indifference. It was, however, - the 
supreme effort, the thrust the painter had been trying to 
give for years, a last work coneeived in his longing to 
prove the virility of his decline. The hatred he har- 
bored against the “Village Wedding,” that first master- 


862 


PASSED SILENTLY BY. 


piece which had weighed upon all his toilsome after life, 
had impelled him to select a contrasting but correspond- 
ing subject: the “Village Funeral” — the funeral of a 
young girl with relatives and friends straggling among 
fields of rye and oats. Bongrand had struggled with 
himself, saying that people should see if he were done 
for, if the experience of his sixty years was not worthy 
of the lucky dash of his youth ; and now experience was 
defeated, the picture was destined to be one of those 
mournful failures like the silent fall of an old man, which 
does not even arrest passers-by in their onward course. 
There were still some masterly bits, the choir boy hold- 
ing the cross, the group of Daughters of the Virgin 
carrying the bier, whose white dresses and ruddy flesh 
furnished a pretty contrast with the black Sunday toggery 
of the rustic mourners, among the green stuff’; only the 
priest in his alb, the girl carrying the Virgin’s banner 
and the family following the body were dryly handled ; 
the whole picture, in fact, was displeasing in its very sci- 
ence and the obstinate stiffness of its treatment. You 
found in it a fatal, unconscious return to the troubled 
romanticism which had been the starting point of the 
painter’s career. And the worst of the business was 
that there was a justification for the indiff’erence with 
which the public treated this art of another period, this 
cooked and somewhat dull style of painting, which no 
longer stopped you on your way,’ since great blazes of 
light had come into vogue. 

It precisely happened that Bongrand entered the gallery 
with the hesitating step of a timid beginner, and Claude 
felt a pang at the heart as he saw him give a glance at 
his solitary picture and then another at Fagerolles’ which 
was fomenting a riot. At that moment the old painter 
must have been acutely conscious of his fall. If he had 
so far been devoured by the fear of slow decline, it was 
because he still doubted; and now he obtained sudden 
certainty; he was surviving himself, his talent was dead. 


PASSED SILENTLY BY. 


363 


he would never more give birth to living, palpitating 
works. He became very pale and was making a move- 
ment as if about to turn and fly, when Chambouvard, the 
sculptor, entering the gallery by the other door, followed 
by his customary train of disciples, called out to him 
without caring a fig for the people present: 

“ Ah ! you humbug, I catch you at it — admiring your- 
self!” 

He, Chambouvard, exhibited that year an execrable 
“Heaping Woman,” one of those stupidly spoilt figures 
which seemed like hoaxes, so unworthy were they of 
his powerful hands; but he was none the less radiant, 
feeling certain that he had turned out yet another mas- 
terpiece, and promenading his god-like infallibility 
through the crowd which he did not hear laughing at 
him. 

Bongrand did not answer, but looked at him with eyes 
scorched by fever. 

“And my machine down-stairs?” continued the sculp- 
tor. “ Have you seen it ? The little fellow^ of now-a- 
days may try it on, but we are the only masters — we, 
old France!” 

And thereupon he went off, followed by his court and 
bowing to the astonished public. 

“The brute!” muttered Bongrand, suffocating with 
grief, as indignant as at the outburst of some low-bred 
fellow beside a death-bed. 

He had perceived Claude and approached him. Was 
it not cowardly to fly from this gallery? And he deter- 
mined to show his courage, his lofty soul, into which 
envy had never entered. 

“Our friend Fagerolles has a success and no mistake,” 
he said. “ I should be a hypocrite if I went into ecsta- 
cies over his picture, which I scarcely like, but he him- 
self is really a very nice fellow indeed. Besides, you 
know how he exerted himself on your behalf.” 


864 


PASSED SILENTLY BY. 


Claude was trying to find a word of admiration for 
the “Village Funeral.” 

“The little cemetery in the background is so pretty!” 
he said at last. “Is it possible that the public — ” 

But Bongrand interrupted him in a rough voice: 

“No compliments of condolence, my friend, eh? I 
see clear enough.” 

At this moment some one nodded to them in a famil- 
iar way, and Claude recognized Naudet, a Naudet who 
had grown and expanded, gilded by the success of the 
colossal strokes of business which he now-a-days jobbed. 
Ambition was turning his head; he talked about sinking 
all the other picture dealers; he had built himself a pal- 
ace, in which he posed as the king of the market, cen- 
tralizing masterpieces, and opening large art-shops of 
the modern style. One heard a jingle of millions on 
the very threshold of his hall; he held exhibitions at 
his place, ran up other galleries elsewhere; and each 
time that May came round, he awaited the visits of the 
American amateurs whom he charged fifty thousand 
francs for a picture which he himself had purchased for 
ten thousand. Moreover, he lived in princely style, 
with a wife, children, a friend, a country estate in 
Picardy and extensive shooting-grounds. His first large 
profits had come from the rise in the value of the works 
left by illustrious artists, now defunct, whose talent had 
been denied while they lived, such as Courbet, Millet, 
Eousseau; and this had ended by making him disdain 
any picture signed by a still struggling artist. How- 
ever, ominous rumors were already in circulation. As 
the number of well-known pictures was limited, and the 
number of amateurs could barely be increased, a time 
was coming when business would prove very difficult. 
There was a talk of a syndicate, of an understanding with 
certain bankers to keep up the present high prices; the 
expedient of simulated sales was resorted to at the 
Hotel Drouot — pictures bought in at a big figure by the 


PASSED SILENTLY BY. 


365 


dealer himself; and bankruptcy seemed to be at the end 
of all this Stock Exchange jobbery, a tumble head-over- 
heels amid all this excessive, mendacious agiotage. 

“Good-day, dear master,” said Naudet, who had 
approached. “ So you have come, like every one else, to 
see my Fagerolles, eh ? ” 

He no longer treated Bongrand in the wheedling, 
respectful manner of yore. And he spoke of Fagerolles 
as of a painter belonging to him, of a workman to 
whom he paid wages, and whom he often rowed. It 
was he who had settled the young artist in the Avenue 
de Yilliers, compelling him to have a little mansion of 
his own, furnishing it as he would have furnished a 
place for a woman, running him into debt with supplies 
of carpets and nick-nacks, so that he might afterwards 
hold him at his mercy; and now he began to accuse 
him of not being orderly, of compromising himself like 
a light-headed fellow. Take that picture for instance, a 
serious painter would never have sent it to the Salon ; 
it made a stir, no doubt, and people even talked of its 
obtaining the medal of honor; but nothing could have a 
worse effect on high prices. When a man wanted to 
get hold of the Yankees, he ought to know how to 
remain at home, like an idol in the depths of his taber- 
nacle. 

“You may believe me or not, my dear fellow,” he 
said to Bongrand, “but I would have given twenty 
thousand francs out of my pocket to prevent those stupid 
newspapers from making all this row about my Fage- 
rolles this year.” 

Bongrand, who, despite his sufferings, was listening 
bravely, smiled. 

“In point of fact,” he said, “they are perhaps carry- 
ing indiscretion too far. I read an article yesterday in 
which I learnt that Fagerolles ate two boiled eggs every 
morning.” 

He laughed over the brutal puffing which, after a first 


866 


PASSED SILENl’LY BY. 


article on the “young master’s” picture, as yet seen by 
nobody, had for a week past kept all Paris occupied 
with his .person. The whole fraternity of reporters had 
been campaigning, stripping Fagerolles to the skin, tell- 
ing their readers all about his father, the artistic zinc 
manufacturer, his education, the house in which he 
resided, how he lived, even revealing the color of his 
socks, and mentioning a habit he had of pinching his 
nose. And he was the passion of the hour, the young 
master according to the tastes of the day, who had been 
lucky enough to miss the Prix de Pome and break off 
with the School of Arts, whose principles, however, he 
retained: ’twas the fortune of a season which the wind 
brings and blows away again, a nervous whim of the 
great lunatic city, the success of that style of painting 
which aims merely at approximating reality, not at ren- 
dering it in all its truth; ’twas the triumph of pearl 
gray audacity, a stir like that occasioned by some acci- 
dent which upsets the crowd in the morning, and is for- 
gotten by night in the general indifference. 

However, Haudet remarked the “Village Funeral.” 

“Hallo! that’s your picture, eh?” he said. “So you 
wanted to give a companion to the ‘Wedding?’ Well, I 
should have tried to dissuade you! Ah! the ‘Wedding!’ 
the ‘Wedding!’” 

Bongrand still listened to him without ceasing to smile; 
barely a twinge of pain passed over his trembling lips. 
He forgot his masterpieces, the certainty of leaving an 
immortal name, he was only cognizant of the vogue 
which this youngster, unworthy of cleaning his palette, 
had acquired at once and without an effort, this vogue 
which seemed to be pushing him, Bongrand, into obliv- 
ion — ^lie who had struggled for ten years before he had 
succeeded in making himself known. Ah! when the 
new generations bury you, if they only knew what tears 
of blood they make you shed in death ! 

Then, as he had remained silent, he was seized with 


PASSED SILENTLY BY. 


367 


tlie fear of having allowed his suffering to be divided. 
Was he falling to the baseness of envy? Anger with 
himself made him raise his head — a man should die 
erect. And instead of giving the violent answer which 
was rising to his lips, he said in a familiar way : 

“You are right, Naudet, I should have done better to 
have gone to bed on the day that the idea of that picture 
occurred to me.” 

“Ah! it’s he; excuse me!” cried the dealer, mak- 
ing off*. 

It was Fagerolles showing himself at the entrance of 
the gallery. He discreetly stood there without entering, 
carrying his good fortune with the ease of a man who 
knows what he is about. Besides, he was looking for 
some one ; he made a sign to a young man, and gave him 
an answer, a favorable one, no doubt, for the young chap 
brimmed over with gratitude. Two other persons sprang 
forward to congratulate him; a woman detained him, 
showing him, with a martyr’s gesture, a bit of still life, 
hung in a dark corner. Then he disappeared, after cast- 
ing but one glance on the people in raptures before his 
picture. 

Claude, who had looked and listened, then felt sadness 
submerging his heart. The crush was still increasing, he 
now had naught before him but faces gaping and sweat- 
ing in the heat which had become intolerable. Above 
the nearer shoulders, other shoulders rose up, and so on, 
as far as the door whence those who could not see any- 
thing pointed out the painting to each other with the tips 
of their umbrellas, dripping from the showers outside. 
And Bongrand remained there out of pride, erect in 
defeat, firmly planted on his legs, those of an old com- 
batant, and gazing with limpid eyes upon ungrateful 
Paris. He wished to finish like a brave man, whose 
kindness of heart is boundless. Claude, who spoke to 
him without receiving any answer, saw very well that 
there was nothing behind this calm, gay face ; the mind 


368 


PASSED SILENTLY BY. 


was absent, it bad flown away in mourning, bleeding with 
frightful torture; and then seized with frightened respect, 
he did not insist but went off*, without Bongraud s vacant 
eyes even noticing his departure. 

A new idea had just impelled Claude onward through 
the crowd. He was lost in wonderment at not having- 
been able to discover his picture. But nothing could be 
more simple. W as there not some gallery where people 
grinned, some nook full of noise and banter, a gathering 
of jesting spectators, insulting a picture? That picture 
would assuredly be his. He could still hear the laughter 
of the by-gone Salon of the Rejected. And now at the 
door of each gallery he listened to ascertain if it were 
there that he was being hissed. 

However, as he found himself once more in the Eastern 
Gallery, that kind of hall where great art agonizes, that 
depository where vast, cold and gloomy historical and 
religious compositions are accumulated, he started, and 
remained motionless, his eyes in the air. He had passed, 
however, through this gallery twice already, and yet that 
was certainly his picture up there, so high up that he 
hesitated about recognizing it; it looked, indeed, so little, 
poised like a swallow on the corner of a frame, the mon- 
umental frame of an immense painting ten metres long, 
representing the “Deluge,” a swarming of yellow figures 
turning topsy-turvy in water which had the color of wine 
lees. On the left, moreover, there was the pitiable cin- 
dery -tinted portrait of a general ; on the right a colossal 
nymph in a moonlit landscape — the bloodless corpse of a 
murdered woman rotting away on the grass ; and every- 
where around there were pinky and violet shaded things, 
mournful compositions, together with a comic scene of 
some monks getting drunk, and an “Opening of the 
Chamber of Deputies,” with a whole page of writing on a 
gilded cartouch, bearing the heads of the well-known 
deputies, drawn in outline, together with their names. 
And high up, high up, amid these livid neighbors, the 


PASSED SILENTLY BY. 


369 


little canvas, too brutal in its treatment, glared ferociously 
with the painful grimace of a monster. 

Ah! the “Dead Child.” At this distance the wretched 
little creature was but a confused mass of flesh, the 
foundered carcass of some shapeless animal. Was that 
swollen, whitened head a skull or a stomach? And 
those poor hands twisted among the bedclothes, like the 
bent claws of a bird killed by cold! And the bed itself, 
that pallidity of the sheets, below the pallidity of the 
limbs, all that white looking so sad, those tints fading 
away as if typical of the supreme end. But, afterwards, 
you distinguished the light eyes staring fixedly, and you 
recognized a child’s head; it seemed a case of some dis- 
ease of the brain, profoundly and frightfully pitiful. 

Claude approached, and then drew back to see the 
better. The light was so bad that refractions darted 
from all points across the canvas. How they had hung 
his little Jacques! no doubt out of disdain, or perhaps 
from shame, so as to get rid of his lugubrious ugliness. 
But Claude evoked the little fellow’s presentment, and 
beheld him again over there in the country, looking fresh 
and pinky, as he rolled about in the grass; then in the 
Kue de Douai, having grown pale and stupid by degrees, 
then in the Eue Tourlaque, no longer able to carry his 
head, and dying one night, all alone, while his mother 
was asleep ; and he beheld her also, that mother, the sad 
woman who had stopped at home, to weep there, no 
doubt, as she was now in the habit of doing during 
entire day^. Ho matter, she had been right in not com- 
ing; ’twas too mournful — their little Jacques, already 
cold in his bed, cast on one side like a pariah, and so 
brutalized by the dancing light that his face seemed to 
laugh, distorted by an abominable grin. 

And Claude sufered still more from the loneliness of 
his work. Astonishment and deception made him seek 
for the crowd, the rush which he had anticipated. Why 
was he not jeered? Ah! the insults of yore, the mock- 
23 


370 


PASSED SILENTLY BY. 


ing, tlie indignation, that had rent his heart, but made 
him live! No, nothing more, not even a look in pass- 
ing: it was death. The spectators defiled rapidly 
through the vast gallery, seized with a shudder of bore- 
dom. There were merely some people in front of the 
“Opening of the Chamber,” where a knot of spectators 
constantly collected, reading the inscriptions and show- 
ing each other the deputies’ heads. Hearing some 
laughter behind him, he turned round, but nobody was 
jeering, some visitors were simply making merry over the 
tipsy monks, the comic success of the Salon, which some 
gentlemen were explaining to some ladies, declaring that 
it was dazzlingly witty. And all these people passed by 
under little Jacques, and not a head was raised, nqt a 
soul even knew that he was up there. 

However, the painter had a gleam of hope. On the 
central settee, two personages, one of them fat and the 
other thin, and both of them decorated with the Legion 
of Honor, sat talking, half- reclining against the velvet 
back, and looking at the pictures in front of them. 
Claude drew near them and listened. 

“And I followed them,” said the fat fellow. “They 
went along the Kue St. Honore, the Eue St. Roch, the 
Rue de la Chaussee d’Antin, the Rue La Fayette.” 

“And you spoke to them?” asked the thin man, who 
seemingly was deeply interested. 

“No, 1 was afraid of getting in a rage.” 

Claude went off and returned on three occasions, his 
heart beating fast each time that some visitor stopped 
short and glanced slowly from the line to the ceiling. 
He felt an unhealthy longing to hear one w^ord, but one. 
Why exhibit? How fathom public opinion? Any- 
thing rather than this torturing silence! And he almost 
suffocated when he saw a young married couple approach, 
the husband a good-looking fellow, with little fair mous- 
tache, the wife, charming, with the delicate slim figure 
of a shepherdess in Dresden china. She had percei ved 


PASSED SILENTLY BY. 


■ 871 


the picture, and asked what the subject was, stupefied 
that she could make nothing out of it; and when her 
husband, turning over the leaves of the catalogue, had 
found the title, “The Dead Child,” she dragged him 
away, shuddering, and raising this cry of affright: 

“Oh! the horror I The police oughtn’t to allow such 
horrors I” 

Then Claude remained there, erect, unconscious and 
haunted, his eyes raised on high, amid the continuous 
flocking of the crowd which trotted by, quite indif- 
ferent, and without one glance for that unique sacred 
thing, visible to him alone. And it was there that 
Sandoz came upon him, amid the jostling. 

The novelist, who had been strolling about alone — 
his wife having remained at home beside his ailing 
mother — had just stopped short, heart-rent, below the 
little canvas, which he had espied by chance. Ah! how 
disgusted he felt with this wretched life 1 He abruptly 
lived the days of his youth over again — the college of 
Plassans, his freaks with Claude on the banks of the 
Yiorne, their long excursions under the burning sun, all 
the flaming of their early ambitions: and, later on, in 
their common life, he remembered their efforts, their 
certainty of coming glory, that fine, irresistible, immod- 
erate appetite that had made them talk of swallowing 
Paris at one bite. How many times, at that period, had 
he seen in Claude the great man, wdiose unbridled genius 
would leave the talent of all tlie others very far in the 
roar! First had come the studio of the Impasse des 
Bourdonnais, later on the studio of the Quai de Bourbon, 
with dreams of vast compositions, projects calculated to 
make the Louvre burst; and meanwhile the struggle was 
incessant, ten hours’ labor a day, the consecration of his 
whole being to his work. And then what? After 
twenty years of that passionate life he ended like that — 
he finished with that poor, sinister little thing, which no 
one noticed, and which looked distressfully sad in its 


872 


PASSED SILENTLY BY. 


leper-like solitude. So much hope and torture, a life- 
time spent in the toil of creating, to come to that, to 
that, good God 1 

Sandoz recognized Claude standing near by, and fra- 
ternal emotion made his voice quake : 

“What! so you came? Why did you refuse to call 
for me then?” 

The painter did not even apologize. He seemed very 
tired, struck with soft, somnilerous stupor. 

“Come, don’t stay here,” added Sandoz. “It’s past 
twelve o’clock and you must lunch with me. Some 
people were to wait for me at Ledoyen’s. But I shall 
give them the go-by; let’s go down to the buffet; we 
shall pick up our spirits there, eh, old fellow?” 

And Sandoz led himvaway, holding his arm, pressing 
it, warming it, trying to draw him from his mournful 
silence. 

“Come, dash it all! You mustn’t give way like that. 
Although they have hung your picture badly, it is superb 
all the same, a real bit of genuine painting! Oh! I 
know that you dreamed of something else! But you are 
not dead yet; it will be for later on. And, just look, 
you ought to be proud, for it’s you who really triumph 
at the Salon this year. Fagerolles isn’t the only one 
who pillages you; they all imitate you now; you have 
revolutionized them since your ‘In the Open Air,’ 
which they laughed so much about! Look, look, there’s 
an ‘open air’ effect — and there’s another, and here and 
there — they all do it!” 

He waved his hand towards the pictures, as he and 
Claude passed along the galleries. In point of fact, the 
dash of clear light, introduced by degrees into contem- 
porary painting, had fully burst forth at last. The 
dingy Salon of yore with its bituminous canvases had 
made way for a Salon full of sunshine, gay like spring 
itself. It was the dawn, the aurora which had first 
gleamed at the Salon of the Eejected, and which was 


PASSED SILENTLY BY. 


373 


now rising and rejuvenating the pictures with a fine dif- 
fused light, decomposed in infinite shades. On all sides 
you found that bluey tinge, even in the portraits and the 
genre scenes, which had acquired the dimensions and the 
serious character of historical paintings. The old acade- 
mical subjects had disappeared, with the cooked juices 
of tradition, as if the condemned doctrine had carried its 
people of shadows away with it; works of pure imagina- 
tion were becoming few and far between — the cadaver- 
ous oddities of mythology and Catholicism for instance, 
the legendary subjects painted without faith, the anec- 
dotic bits destitute of life, in fact, all the bric-a-brac of 
the School of Arts used up by generations of tricksters 
and fools; and the influence of the new principle was 
evident even among those artists who lingered over the 
antique recipes, even among the masters, now grown old ; 
the flash of sunlight had penetrated to their studios. 
From afar, at every step you took, you saw a painting 
transpierce the wall and form, as it were, a window with 
an outdoor view. Soon the walls themselves would fall ; 
nature would walk in; for the breach was a broad one; 
and the assault had driven routine away in this gay bat- 
tle fought by audacity and youth. 

“Ah! your lot is a fine one, all the same, old fellow!” 
continued Sandoz. “The art of to-morrow will be 
yours; you have made them all.” 

Claude thereupon opened his mouth and, with an air 
of gloomy brutality, said in a low voice : 

“What the deuce do I care if I have made them all, 
when I haven’t made myself? See here, it’s too big an 
affair for me, and that’s what stifles me.” 

He made a gesture to finish expressing his thought — 
his inability to prove himself the genius of the formula 
he laid down, the torture he felt at being merely a pre- 
cursor, the one who sows the idea without reaping the 
glory, his grief at seeing himself pillaged, devoured by 
men who turned out hasty work, by a whole flight of 


874 


PASSED SILENTLY BY. 


fellows wlio scattered tlieir efforts and lowered the new 
art, before he or another had had strength enough to pro- 
duce the masterpiece which would make the end of this 
century a date in art. 

Sandoz protested, the future lay open. Then to divert 
Claude, he stopped him, while crossing the Gallery of 
Honor, and said: 

“Just look at that lady in blue before that portrait I 
What a slap nature does give to painting! You remem- 
ber when we used to look at the public, the dresses, the 
animation of the galleries in former times? Not a 
painting then withstood the shock. And yet now there 
are some which don’t get damaged too much. I even 
noticed, over there, a landscape, the general yellowish 
tinge of which completely eclipsed all the women who 
approached it.” 

Claude was quivering with unutterable suffering. 

“Pray, let’s go,” he said; “take me away — I can’t 
stand it any longer.” 

They had all the trouble in the world to find a free 
table in the refreshment room. People were stifling, 
pressed together in the vast shady retreat, girt round 
with brown serge drapery under the girders of the lofty 
iron flooring of the up-stairs galleries. In the back- 
ground, and but partially visible in the darkness, there 
were three dressers displaying dishes of preserved fruit 
symmetrically ranged on their shelves; while, nearer at 
hand, at counters placed right and left, two ladies, a 
dark one and a fair one, watched the crowd with a mili- 
tary air; and from the dim depths of this seeming 
cavern there came a sea of little marble tables, a tide of 
chairs, serried, entangled, surging, swelling, overflowing 
and spreading out in the garden, under the broad pallid 
liglit which fell from the glass roof. 

At last, Sandoz saiv some people rise up. * He darted 
forward and conquered the vacant table by sheer strug- 
gling amid the mob. 


PASSED SILENTLY BY. 875 

“ All ! dash it ! we are here at all events I Wliat will 
you have to eat? ” 

Claude made a gesture of indifference. The lunch was 
execrable, some trout softened by over-boiling, undercut 
of beef dried up in the oven, asparagus smelling of moist 
linen, and, into the bargain, you had to fight to get 
served, for the waiters, hustled about and, losing their 
heads, remained in distress in the narrow passages which 
the flux of the chairs constantly contracted until it 
blocked them altogether. Behind the hanging on the 
left, one would hear a racket of saucepans and crockery ; 
the kitchen being installed there on the sand, like those 
Kermesse cook-shops, which camp by the roadside in the 
open air. 

Sandoz and Claude had to eat, seated obliquely, and 
half- strangled between two parties of people whose 
elbows ended by almost getting into their plates; and 
each time that a waiter passed by he shook the chairs 
with a violent knock of his hips. However, the incon- 
venience, like the abominable cookery, made one gay. 
People jested about the dishes, diflerent tables frater- 
nized together in the common misfortune, which brought 
about a kind of pleasure party. Strangers ended by 
sympathizing; friends kept up conversations, although 
seated three rows distant from one another and obliged 
to turn their heads and gesticulate over their neighbors’ 
shoulders. The women, particularly, became animated, 
at first rather anxious as to the crush, and then unglov- 
ing their hands, catching up their skirts, and laughing 
at the first thimbleful of neat wine they drank. And 
the real spiciness of this “varnishing day” lay in the 
promiscuity with which all circles of society elbowed 
one another, girls, ladies, great artists and simple fools; 
and these chance meetings produced a mixture, the 
unexpected suggestive ness of which lent a sparkle even 
to the eyes of the best conducted folks. 

However, Sandoz, who had renounced finishing his 


376 


PASSED SILENTLY BY. 


'meat, raised his voice amid the terrible hubbub caused 
by the chatter and the serving : 

“A bit of cheese, eh? And let’s try to get some 
coffee.” 

Claude, whose eyes looked dreamy, did not hear. He 
was gazing into the garden. From his seat he could see 
the central clump of verdure, some lofty palms which 
stood in relief against the gray hangings with which the 
garden was decorated all around. A circle of statues 
was set out there; and you could see the back of a fau- 
ness; a pretty side view of the figure of a young girl 
with full cheeks ; the face of a bronze Gaul, a colossal 
bit of romanticism irritating with its stupid assumption 
of patriotism; a woman hanging by the wrists, some 
Andromeda of the Place Pigalle; and others, and others 
still, rows of shoulders and hips, which followed the 
bends of the pathways, heads, breasts, legs, arms, all 
mingled and growing indistinct in the distance. On 
the left stretched a line of busts, such delightful ones, 
furnishing the comical and uncommon sight of a suite 
of noses — a priest with a huge, pointed nose, a soubrette 
with a turn-up nose, a fifteenth-century Italian woman 
with a handsome classical nose, a sailor with a mere 
fancy nose — in fact, every kind of nose, the magistrate’s 
nose, the manufacturer’s nose, the nose of the gentleman 
decorated with the Legion of Honor, all of them motion- 
less and ranged in endless succession. 

However, Claude saw nothing of them; to him they 
were but gray spots in the hazy, greenish light. His 
stupor still lasted, and he was only conscious of one 
thing, the luxuriousness of the women’s dresses, of which 
he had formed a wrong estimate amid the pushing in 
the galleries, and which were here freely displayed, as if 
the wearers had been promenading over the gravel in the 
conservatory of some chateau. All the elegance of 
Paris passed by, the women who had come to show 
themselves, in dresses thoughtfully combined and des- 


PASSED SILENTLY BY. 


377 


tined to be described in the morrow’s newspapers. 
People stared a great deal at an actress walking about 
with a queen-like tread and leaning on the arm of a 
gentleman who assumed the complacent air of a prince 
consort. The women of society took one another’s 
measure, estimating the value of the silk, the length of 
the lace, and ferreting everywhere from the tips of the 
boots to the feathers on the bonnet. This was neutral 
ground, so to say; some ladies who were seated had 
drawn their chairs together, after the fashion in the gar- 
den of the Tuileries, and occupied themselves exclusively 
with those of their sex who passed by. Two female 
friends quickened their pace, laughing. Another woman, 
all alone, walked up and down, mute, with a black look 
in her eyes. Some others, who had lost one another, 
met again, and began ejaculating about the adventure. 
And in the meantime the dark moving mass of men 
came to a stand-still, then set off again till it stopped 
short in front of a bit of marble or eddied back in front 
of a bit of bronze. And among the mere cits, who were 
but few in number, though all of them looked out of 
their element there, moved men with celebrated names, 
all the illustrations of Paris, a name of resounding glory 
as a fat, ill-clad gentleman passed by, the winged name 
of a poet as a pale man with a flat, common face 
approached. A living undulation was uprising from 
this crowd in the even, colorless light, when suddenly a 
flash of sunshine, from behind the clouds of a final 
shower, set the glass panes on high aflame, made the 
stained window on the western side resplendent, and 
rained down in golden particles through the still atmos- 
phere; and then everything became warm, the snowy 
statues amid the . shiny green stuff, the soft lawns dis- 
jointed by the yellow sand of the pathways, the rich 
dresses with their satin and their beads brightly reflect- 
ing, even the very voices, the nervous, hilarious murmur 
of which seemed to crackle like a bright fire of vine 


878 


PASSED SILENTLY BY. 


shoots. Some gardeners, completing the arrangement 
of the flower-beds, turned the taps of the water pipes 
and promenaded about with their pots, the shower 
squirting from which was exhaled bj the drenched grass 
in tepid steam. And meanwhile a plucky sparrow, who 
had come down from the iron girders, despite the num- 
ber of people, was dipping his beak in the sand in front 
of the bufiet, eating some crumbs which a young woman 
threw him by way of amusement. Of all the tumult, 
however, Claude only heard the ocean-like din afar, the 
rumbling of the people rolling onwards in the galleries. 
And a recollection came to him, Ijc remembered that 
noise, which had burst forth like a hurricane in front of 
his picture at the Salon of the Rejected. But, nowadays, 
people no longer laughed ; up-stairs, the giant breath of 
Baris was acclaiming Fagerolles. 

It precisely happened that Sandoz, who had turned 
round, said to Claude: “Hallo! there’s Fagerolles!” ' 

And, indeed, Fagerolles and Jory had just laid hands 
on a table near by without remarking their friends, and 
the journalist resumed in his grufl' voice a conversation 
previously commenced: 

“Yes, I saw his ‘Dead Child!’ Ah! the poor devil! 
What an ending! ” 

Fagerolles nudged Jory, and the latter, having caught 
sight of his two old comrades, immediately added: 

“Ah! that dear old Claude! How goes it, eh? You 
know that I haven’t yet seen your picture. But I^m 
told that it’s superb.” 

“Superb!” declared Fagerolles, who then began to 
express his surprise. “So you lunched here ! What an 
idea ! Everything is so awfully bad. We two have just 
come from Ledoyen’s. Oh ! such a crowd, such a hust- 
ling, such mirth! Bring your table nearer and l^t us 
chat a bit.” 

They joined the two tables together. But flatterers 
and petitioners were already after the triumphant young 


PASSED SILENTLY BY. 


879 


master. Three friends rose np and noisily saluted him 
from afar. A lady became smilingly contemplative when 
her husband had whispered his name in her ear. And 
the tall, thin fellow, the artist whose picture had been 
badly hung, and who had pursued him since the morn- 
ing, as enraged as ever, left a table where he was seated 
at the further end of the buffet, and again hurried for- 
ward to complain, imperatively demanding “the line” at 
once. 

“Oh! go to the deuce!” cried FagerolleS at last, his 
patience and amiability exhausted. And he added, 
when the other had gone off, mumbling some indistinct 
threats: “It’s true; a fellow does all he can to be obli- 
ging, but those chaps would drive one mad ! All of them 
on the ‘line!’ leagues of ‘line’ then! Ah! what a busi- 
ness it is to be a committee-man! You wear out your 
legs, and only reap hatred as your reward!” 

Claude, who was looking at him, with his oppressed 
air, seemed to wake up for a moment and murmured : 

“I wrote to you ; I wanted to go and see you to thank 
you. Bongrand told me about all the trouble you had. 
So thanks again.” 

But Fagerolles hastily broke in : 

“Tut! tut! I certainly owed that much to our old 
friendship. It’s I who am delighted to have given you 
any pleasure.” 

He showed the embarrassment which always seized 
hold of him in presence of the acknowledged master of 
his youth, that kind of humility which came perforce 
upon him when he was with the man whose mute 
disdain, even at this moment, sufficed to spoil all his 
triumph. 

“Your picture is very good,” slowly added Claude, 
who wished to be kind-hearted and generous. ' 

This simple praise made Fagerolles’ heart swell with 
exaggerated, irresistible emotion, springing he knew not 
whence; and this fellow, who believed in nothing, who 


880 


PASSED SILENTLY BY. 


was usually so proficient in humbug, answered in a 
shaky voice: 

“Ah! my dear fellow, ah! it’s very kind of you to, tell 
imethat!” 

Sandoz had at last obtained two cups of coffee, and as 
the waiter had forgotten to bring any sugar, he had to 
content himself with some bits which a party had left 
on a table near by. A few tables had now become 
vacant, but the general freedom had increased, and one 
woman’s laughter rang out so loud that every head 
turned round. The men were smoking, and a bluish 
cloud slowly rose above the straggling tablecloths, 

, stained by wine, and littered with dirty plates and dishes. 
When Fagerolles, on his side, succeeded in obtaining 
two glasses of Chartreuse for himself and Jory, he begail 
to talk to Sandoz, whom he treated with a certain amount 
of deference, divining that the novelist might become a 
power. And Jory thereupon appropriated Claude, who 
had again become mournful and silent. 

“You know, my dear fellow,” said the journalist, “I 
didn’t send you any announcement of my marriage. 
On account of our position we managed it on the quiet 
without any guests. All the same, I should have liked 
to let you know. You will excuse me, won’t you?” 

He showed himself expansive, gave particulars, happy 
to be alive, and egotistically delighted to feel fat and vic- 
torious in front of this poor, vanquished fellow. He 
succeeded with everything, he said. He had given up 
leader- writing, feeling the necessity of settling down seri- 
ously, and he had risen to the editorship of a prominent 
'art review, on which, so it was asserted, he made thirty 
Ithousand francs a year, without mentioning certain pro- 
fits realized by shady trafficking in the sale of art col- 
lections. The middle-class rapacity which he had 
inherited from his mother, the hereditary passion for 
profit which had secretly impelled him to embark in 
petty speculations as soon as he had made a few coppers. 


PASSED SILENTLY BY. 


381 


now openly displayed itself, and had ended by making 
him a terrible customer who bled all the artists and 
amateurs who came under his clutches. 

And it was amidst this good luck of his that Mathilde, 
now all powerful, had brought him to the point of beg- 
ging her, with tears in his eyes, to become his wife, a 
request which she had proudly refused during six months. 

“When folks are destined to live together,” he con- 
tinued, “the best course is to set everything square. 
You experienced it yourself, my dear fellow; you know 
something about it, eh? And if I told you that she 
wouldn’t consent at first — yes, it’s a fact — for fear of 
being badly j udged and doing me harm! Oh! she has 
such a grandeur, such a delicacy of mind! No, no one 
can have an idea of that woman’s qualities! Devoted, 
taking all possible care of you, economical, and acute, 
and a good adviser! Ah! it was a lucky chance that I 
met her! I no longer do anything without consulting 
her ; I let her do as she likes ; she manages everything, 
upon my word!” 

The truth was that Mathilde had finished by reducing 
him to the frightened obedience of a little boy, who 
becomes “good” at the mere threat that he sha’n’t have 
any jam. The once dissolute she-ghoul had become a 
dictatorial spouse, eager for respect, and consumed with 
ambition and love of money. She did not even play 
him false, but showed the sourish virtues of an honest 
woman. It was said that they had been seen together 
taking the Holy Communion at Notre Dame de Lorette. 
They kissed one another before other people, and called 
each other by endearing nicknames. Only, of an even- 
ing, he had to relate how he had spent his time during 
the day, and if the employment of a single hour 
remained suspicious, if he did not bring home all the 
sums he had received, down to the odd coppers, she 
made him spend such a night, threatening him with 


882 


PASSED SILENTLY BY. 


grievous illnesses, tliat on eacli occasion lie paid a dearer 
price for lier forgiveness. 

“And so,” repeated Jory, wlio took a pleasure in 
relating his story, “we waited for my father’s death, 
and then I married her.” 

Claude, whose mind had so far been wandering, and 
who had merely nodded his head without listening, was 
struck by this last sentence. 

“What I you married her — married Mathilde?” 

This exclamation resumed all the astonishment that 
the affair caused him, all the recollections that had 
occurred to him of Mahoudeau’s shop. That Jory, why, 
he could still hear him talking about her in abominable 
terms; he remembered his confidential revelations one 
morning on the foot-pavement ; Koman orgies, horrors in 
the depths of the herb-shop, reeking with the strong 
smell of aromatic plants. All the band had passed 
through it. Jory had shown himself even more insult- 
ing than the others, and yet he had married her I It 
was really stupid^ for a fellow to speak badly of a 
woman, as he never knew if he wouldn’t end by marry- 
ing her some day or other I 

“Why, yes, Mathilde,” replied Jory, smiling. “Oh, 
those old creatures! they make the best wives after 
all!” 

He was perfectly serene, his memory dead, not allow- 
ing himself an allusion, not showing the least embarrass- 
ment when his comrades’ eyes were on him. Besides, 
she seemed to be a new comer, and he introduced her to 
them as if they were not as well acquainted with her as 
he was. 

Sandoz, who had lent an ear to the conversation, 
greatly interested by this fine business, called out as soon 
as Jory and Claude became silent : 

“Let’s be off, eh? My legs are getting numbed.” 

But at this moment Irma Bdcot appeared, and stop- 
ped in front of the buffet. With her hair freshly gilded 


PASSED SILENTLY BY. 


883 


she had assumed her best looks ; all the tricky sheen of 
a tawny woman, who seemed to have just stepped out 
of some old Eenaissance frame : and she wore a train of 
light blue brocaded silk, over a satin skirt covered with 
Alengon lace, of such richness that quite an escort of 
gentlemen followed her in admiration. On perceiving 
Claude among the others, she hesitated for a moment, 
seized, as it were, with cowardly shame in front of this 
ill-clad, ugly, derided devil. Then, becoming valiant 
with her old whim, as it were, it was his hand that she 
shook the first, amid all these well-dressed men, who 
opened their eyes in amazement. She laughed with an 
affectionate air, with friendly banter, which slightly 
puckered up the corners of her mouth. 

“ Without malice,” she gayly said to Claude. 

And this remark, which they alone understood, made 
her laugh all the more. It resumed their story. The 
poor fellow whom she had had to carry off* perforce, and 
who hadn’t even been pleased with her for doing so. 

Fagerolles, who was already paying for the two Chart- 
reuses, went off with Irma, whom Jory also decided to 
follow. Claude watched them go off together, she 
between the two men, walking in regal fashion, greatly 
admired, and repeatedly bowed to, through the crowd. 

“One can see very well that Mathilde isn’t here,” said 
Sandoz, quietly. “Ah! my friends, what clouts Jory 
would receive on getting home.” 

The novelist now asked for the bill. All the tables 
were becoming vacant, there only remained a litter of 
bones and crusts. A couple of waiters were wiping the 
marble slabs with sponges, whilst a third was raking the 
sand, moist and soiled with crumbs. Behind the brown 
serge hangings, the staff of the establishment was lunch- 
ing — there was a noise of jaws moving, clammy laughter, 
all the powerful mastication of a camp of gipsies swal- 
lowing the contents of their saucepans. 

Claude and Sandoz went round the garden, and they 


384 


PASSED SILENTLY BY. 


discovered a statue by Maboudeau, very badly placed in 
a corner near the eastern vestibule. It was the bathing 
girl at last, standing erect, but of diminutive propor- 
tions, being scarcely as tall as a girl ten years old, but 
charmingly delicate — with slim hips, and a tiny bosom, 
displaying all the exquisite hesitancy of a sprouting bud. 
The figure seemed to exhale a perfume, that grace which 
nothing imparts, but which flowers where it pleases, 
obstinate, invincible, perennial grace, springing still and 
ever from those thick workman’s fingers, so ignorant of 
their special aptitude that they had long treated this 
very grace with derision. 

Sandoz could not help smiling. 

“And to think that this fellow has done everything he 
could to warp his talent. If his figure were better 
placed, it would meet with great success.” 

“Yes, great success,” repeated Claude. “It is very 
pretty.” 

Precisely at that moment, they perceived Mahoudeau, 
already in the vestibule, and going towards the staircase. 
They called him, ran after him, and then all three 
remained together for a few minutes, talking. The 
ground-floor gallery stretched away, empty,- with a 
sanded pavement, and a pale light streaming through its 
large round windows ; and you might have fancied your- 
self under a railway bridge. Strong pillars supported 
the metallic framework; an icy chillness blew down from 
above, moistening the sand in which your feet sank. In 
the distance, behind a torn curtain, you could see rows 
of statues, the rejected sculptural exhibits, the casts 
which poor sculptors did not even remove, gathered 
together in a livid kind of Morgue, in a state of lamenta- 
ble abandonment. But what surprised one, on raising 
one’s head, was the continuous din, the mighty tramp of 
the public over- the flooring of the galleries. You were 
deafened by it ; it rolled on indefinitely, as if intermina- 


PASSED SILENTLY BY. 


385 


ble trains, going at full speed, were endlessly shaking 
the iron girders. 

When Mahoudeau had been complimented, he told 
Claude that he had searched for his picture in vain ; in 
the depths of what hole could they have shoved it? 
Then in a fit of affection for the past, he anxiously 
asked after Gagniere and Dubuche. Where were the 
Salons of yore, which they had all reached in a band, 
the mad excursions through the galleries as in an 
enemy’s country, the violent disdain on going away, the 
discussions which had made one’s tongue swell, and 
emptied one’s brain! Nobody now saw Dubuche. Two 
or three times a month Gagniere came from Melun, in a 
state of distraction, to attend some concert; and he now 
took such little interest in painting that he had not even 
come to the Salon, although he exhibited his usual land- 
scape, the same view of the banks of the Seine, which 
he had been sending for fifteen years, of a pretty grayish 
tint, and so conscientious and quiet that the public had 
never remarked it. 

“I was going up-stairs,” resumed Mahoudeau. “Will 
you come up with me?” 

Claude, pale with suffering, raised his eyes every 
second. Ah I that terrible rumbling, that devouring gal- 
lop of the monster overhead, the shock of which he felt 
in his very limbs. 

He held out his hand without speaking. 

“What! Are you going to leave us?” exclaimed 
Sandoz. “Take just another turn with us, and we’ll go 
away together.” 

Then on seeing Claude so weary, a feeling of pity 
made his heart contract. He divined that the poor fel- 
low’s courage was exhausted, that he was desirous of 
solitude, seized with a desire to fly off alone and hide 
his wound. 

“ Then, good-bye, old man. I’ll call and see you to- 
morrow.” 

24 


886 


PASSED SILENTLY BY. 


Staggering and as if pursued by the tempest of 
up-stairs, Claude disappeared behind the clumps of 
shrubbery in the garden. But two hours later, Sandoz, 
who after losing Mahoudeau had just found him again 
with Jory and Fagerolles, perceived the painter once 
more standing in front of his picture, at the same spot 
where he had met him the first time. At the moment 
of going oft’ the wretched fellow had come up there 
again, harassed and attracted despite himself. 

There was now the usual five o’clock heated crush. 
The crowd, weary of winding round the galleries, and 
seized with the vertigo of flocks let free in a fold, 
became distracted, and pushed and shoved, crushing one 
another without finding the way out. Since the cool- 
ness of the morning, the heat of the human bodies, the 
odor of the breath, had made the atmosphere heavy 
with a ruddy vapor; and the dust of the floors, flying 
about, rose up in a fine mist amid all the exhalations. 
People still took each other to see certain pictures, the 
subjects of which alone struck and attracted the crowd. 
People went ofi‘, came back, and walked about unceas- 
ingly. The women were particularly obstinate in not 
retiring; they seemed determined to remain there till 
the attendants pushed them outside when six o’clock 
began to strike. Some fat ladies had foundered. 
Others, who had failed to find the tiniest place to sit 
down on, leaned heavily on their parasols, sinking, but 
still obstinate. Every eye anxiously and supplicatingly 
w'atched the settees loaded with people. And all that 
these thousands of sight-seers were now conscious of 
was this last stroke of fatigue, which made their legs 
totter, drew their features together, and tortured their 
foreheads with headache, that special headache of the 
Salon, caused by the constant straining of the neck, and 
the blinding dance of colors. 

Alone, on the little settee, where at noon already they 
had been talking about their private afi’airs, the two 


PASSED SILENTLY BY. 


887 


decorated gentlemen were still quietly chatting witli 
their minds a hundred leagues away. Perhaps they 
had returned there, perhaps they had not even budged 
from the spot. 

“And so,” said the fat one, “you went in, pretending 
not to understand ? ” 

“ Quite so,” replied the thin one. “ I looked at them 
and took off my hat. It was clear, eh ? ” 

“Astonishing, you are really astonishing, my dear 
friend.” 

Claude, however, only heard the low beating of his 
heart, and only beheld the “Dead Child” up there in the 
air, near the ceiling. He did not take his eye off it, a 
prey to the fascination which held him there, quite inde- 
pendent of his will. The crowd turned round him in its 
nauseous lassitude, people’s feet trod on his, he was 
shoved against, carried away; and like some inert object 
he abandoned himself, waved about, and ultimately 
found himself again at the same spot without having 
once lowered his head, quite ignorant of what was trans- 
piring below, and with all his life concentrated up there 
beside his work, his little Jacques, swollen in death. 
Two big tears stood motionless between his eyelids, pre- 
venting him from seeing clearly. And it seemed to him 
as if he would never have time to see enough. 

Then Sandoz, in his profound compassion, pretended 
not to see his old friend, as if he wished to leave him 
there, beside the tomb of his miscarried life. The com- 
rades once more went past in a band. Fagerolles and 
Jory darted on ahead, and Mahoudeau, having asked 
Sandoz where Claude’s picture was hung, the novelist 
told a lie, drew him aside and took him off. They all 
of them went away. 

In the evening Christine only managed to draw curt 
words from Claude; everything was going on all right, 
he said; the public showed no ill humor; the picture 
had a good effect, though it was hung perhaps rather 


388 


PASSED SILENTLY BY. 


high up. However, despite this semblance of cold 
tranquillity, he was so strange that she became fright- 


ened. 

After dinner, as she returned from carrying the dirty 
plates into the kitchen, she no longer found him near the 
table. He had opened a window which overlooked some 
waste ground and he stood there, leaning out to such a 
degree that she was unable to see him. Then, terrified, 
she sprang forward and pulled him violently by his 
jacket. 

“Claudel Claude! what are you doing?” 

He turned round, as white as a sheet and with hag- 
gard eyes. 

“I’m looking.” 

But she closed the window with her trembling hands, 
and after that such anguish clung to her that she no 


A FINAL SPLITTING UP. 


389 


CHAPTEK XI. 

A FINAL SPLITTING UP. 

C LAUDE set to work again on the very next day 
and the time elapsed, the whole summer went by 
in heavy quietude. He had found a job, some little 
paintings of flowers for England, the proceeds of which 
sufficed for their daily bread. All his available time 
was again devoted to the large canvas, and he no longer 
went into the same fits of anger over it, but seemed to 
resign himself to this eternal task, looking calm, and 
showing obstinate, hopeless industry. However, his 
eyes retained their mad expression, one saw the death of 
light, as it were, in them, when they gazed on the mis- 
carried work of his existence. 

At about this period Sandoz, also, experienced great 
grief. His mother died, his whole life was upset, that 
life of three together, so homely in its character, and 
shared merely by a few friends. He began to hate the 
pavilion of the Rue Nollet, and, moreover, success sud- 
denly declared itself as regards his books, which hitherto 
had sold but moderately well. So, gratified by the 
advent of this wealth, he rented in the Rue de Londres 
a spacious flat, the arrangement of which occupied him 
and his wife for several months. Sandoz’s grief had 
drawn him closer to Claude again, both being disgusted 
with everything. After the terrible blow of the Salon, 
the novelist had been anxious about his old chum, divi- 
ning that something had irreparably snapped within him, 
that there was some wound by which life ebbed away 


390 


A FINAL SPLITTING UP. 


unseen. Then, seeing Claude become so cold and quiet, 
he had' ended by growing somewhat reassured. 

Sandoz often walked up to the Kue Tourlaque, and 
whenever it happened that he found only Christine at 
home, he questioned her, realizing that she, also, lived 
in apprehension of a calamity of which she never spoke. 
Her face bore a look of worry, and now and anon she 
. started nervously like a mother who watches over her 
child, and trembles at the slightest sound, with the fear 
that death may be entering the chamber. 

One July morning Sandoz asked her: “Well, are 
you pleased? Claude’s quiet, he works a deal.” 

She gave the large picture her usual glance, a side one 
full of terror and hatred. 

“Yes, yes, he works,” she said. “He wants to finish 
everything else before taking up the woman again.” 
And without confessing the fear that harassed her, she 
added in a lower tone: “But his eyes — have you noticed 
his eyes? They always have the same wild expression. 
I know very well that he lies, despite his pretence of 
taking things so easily. Pray, come and see him, and 
take him out with you, so as to change the current of 
his thoughts. He only has you left ; help me, do help 
me!” 

After that Sandoz diligently devised motives for walks, 
arrived at Claude’s early in the morning, and carried him 
away from his work perforce. It was almost always 
necessary to drag him from his steps, on which he habit- 
ually sat, even when he was not painting. A feeling of 
weariness stopped him, a kind of torpor benumbed ’him 
for long minutes without his giving a single stroke with 
the brush. In these moments of mute contem.plation, 
his gaze reverted with pious fervor to the woman’s figure 
which he no longer touched: it was like a hesitating 
desire for voluptuousness which was bound to bring deatli 
with it — an infinite tenderness combined with the sacred 
fright of a passion, which he refused to satisfy, as he was 


A FINAL SPLITTING UP. 


891 


certain that it would cost him his life. Then he set to 
work again at the other figures and the background of 
the picture, knowing, however, that the woman’s figure 
was still there; and his glance wavered whenever he 
espied it ; he felt he would only remain master of himself 
as long as he did not touch her flesh again, and she did 
not clasp him in her arms. 

One evening, Christine, who now visited at Sandoa’s, 
and never missed a single Thursday there, in the hope 
of seeing her big sick child of an artist brighten up in 
the society of his friends, took the novelist aside, beg- 
ging him to drop in at their place on the morrow. And 
on the next day Sandoz, who, as it happened, precisely 
wanted to take some notes for a novel, on the other side 
of Montmartre, went in search of Claude, took him off 
and kept him idling about until night-time. 

On this occasion they went as far as the gate of 
Clignancourt, where a perpetual fair was held, with 
merry-go-rounds, shooting-galleries, and drinking-gar- 
dens, and on reaching the spot they were stupefied to find 
themselves face to face with Chaine, who was enthroned 
in the centre of a vast and stylish booth. It was a kind 
of chapel, highly ornamented; four circular revolving 
stands were set in a row, loaded with articles in china and 
glass, all sorts of nick-nacks, the gilding and varnish of 
which shone in lightning fashion amid an harmonica-like 
tinkling, whenever the hand of any gamester set the stand 
in motion. It then swept round, grating against a feather 
which, on the rotatory movement ceasing, indicated what 
article, if any, had been won. The big prize was a live 
rabbit, adorned with pink favors, which waltzed and 
revolved unceasingly, intoxicated with fright. And all 
this display was set in red hangings, scalloped at the top, 
curtains between which one saw three pictures hanging at 
the rear of the shop, as in the sanctuary of some taber- 
nacle. They were Chaine’s three masterpieces, which fol- 
lowed him from fair to fair, from one end of Paris to the 


892 


A FINAL SPLITTING UP. 


other. The “Woman taken in Adultery ” in the centre, 
the copy of the Mantegna on the left, Mahoudeau’s stove 
on the right. Of an evening when the petroleum lamps 
were flaming, and the revolving stands burned and 
radiated like planets, nothing seemed finer than these 
pictures hanging amid the blood-tinged purple of the 
hangings ; and so the gaping crowd often flocked there. 

The sight was such that it wrung an exclamation from 
Claude: “Ah, good heavens! But those paintings look 
very well — they were intended for this.” 

The Mantegna, so naively hard in treatment, looked 
like some faded colored print nailed there for the delecta- 
tion of simple-minded folks; whilst the minutely painted 
stove, all awry, hanging beside the gingerbread Christ 
absolving the adulterous woman, assumed an unexpect- 
edly gay aspect. 

However, Chaine, who had just perceived the two 
friends, held out his hand to them, as if he had left them 
merely the day before. He was calm, neither proud nor 
ashamed of his shop, and he had not aged, still having a 
leathery aspect, though on the other hand his nose had 
completely vanished between his cheeks, whilst his 
mouth, clammy with prolonged silence, was buried in his 
beard. 

“Hallo! so we meet again!” said Sandoz, gayly. “Do 
you know your paintings have a lot of eftect?” 

“The old humbug!” added Claude. “Why he has his 
little Salon all to himself. That’s very cute, indeed.” 

Chaine’s face became radiant, and he dropped the 
remark: “Of course!” 

Then, as his artistic pride was roused, he, from whom 
people barely wrung anything but growls, articulated a 
complete sentence: 

“Ah! it’s quite certain that if I had any money like 
you fellows, I should make my way just as you have 
done, in spite of everything.” 

Tliat was his conviction. He had never doubted his 


A FINAL SPLITTING UP. 


393 


talent, he had simply forsaken the profession because it 
didn’t feed him. In the Louvre, at sight of the master- 
pieces hanging there, he was convinced that time alone 
was necessary to turn out similar work. 

“Ah, me!” said Claude, who had become gloomy 
again. “Don’t regret what you’ve done ; you alone have 
succeeded. Business is brisk, eh ? ” 

But Chaine muttered bitter words. No, no, there was 
nothing doing, not even in his line. People- wouldn’t 
play for prizes ; all the money found its way to the wine- 
shops. In spite of buying paltry odds and ends, and 
striking the table with the palm of one’s hand, so that 
the feather might not indicate one of the big prizes, a 
fellow barely had water to drink nowadays. Then, as 
some people had drawn near, he stopped short in his 
explanation and cried out: “Walk up, walk up, at every 
turn you win ! ” — in a gruff voice, which the two others 
had never known him to possess, and which fairly stupe- 
fied them. 

A workman who was carrying a sickly little girl with 
large covetous eyes, let her play two turns. The revolv- 
ing stands grated, the nick-nacks danced round in daz- 
zling fashion, while the live rabbit, with his ears lowered, 
revolved and revolved so rapidly that the outline of his 
body vanished and he became nothing but a whitish 
circle. There was a moment of great emotion, for the 
little girl had narrowly missed winning him. 

Then, after shaking hands with Chaine, who was still 
trembling with the fright he had had, the two friends 
walked away. 

“He’s happy,” said Claude, after they had gone some 
fifty paces in silence. 

“He!” cried Sandoz, “ why, he believes he has missed 
becoming a member of the Institute, and it’s killing 
him.” 

Shortly after this meeting, and towards the middle of 
August, Sandoz hit upon the diversion of a real journey, 


394 


A FINAL SPLITTING UP. 


a complete excursion wliicli would take up a whole day. 
He had met Dubuche — Dubuche, careworn and mourn- 
ful, who had shown himself plaintive and affectionate, 
raking up the past, inviting his two old chums to lunch 
at La Kichaudi^re, where he should be alone with his two 
children for another fortnight. Why shouldn’t they go 
and surprise him since he seemed so desirous of renew- 
ing the old intimacy? But in vain did Sandoz repeat that 
he had promised Dubuche on oath to bring Claude with 
him; the painter obstinately refused to go, as if he were 
frightened at the idea of again beholding Bennecourt, the 
Seine, the islands, all the stretch of country where his 
happy years lay dead and buried. It was necessary for 
Christine to interfere, and he finished by giving way, 
although full of repugnance. It precisely happened that 
on the day prior to the appointment, he had worked at 
his painting until very late, being taken with the old 
fever again. And so the next morning — it was Sunday 
— being devoured with a longing to paint, he went off 
most reluctantly, tearing himself away from his picture 
with a pang. What was the use of returning to Benne- 
court? All that was dead, it no longer existed. Paris 
alone existed, and even in Paris there was but one view, 
the point of La Cite, that vision which haunted him 
always and everywhere, that one corner where he left 
his heart. 

Sandoz, finding him nervous in the railway carriage 
with his eyes fixed on the window as if he had been 
leaving the city — which had gradually grown smaller 
and seemed shrouded in mist — for years, did all he could 
to divert his mind, and told him what he knew about 
Dubuche’s real position. At the outset, old Margaillan, 
glorifying in his be-medalled son-in-law, had trotted him 
about and introduced him everywhere as his partner and 
successor. There was a fellow who would conduct busi- 
ness briskly, who would build more cheaply and in finer 
style, for he had grown pale over book's! However, 


A FINAL SPLITTING UP. 


895 


Dubuclie’s first idea was disastrous; on some land 
belonging to bis fatber-in-law in Burgundy be estab- 
lished a brickyard in so unfavorable a situation, and 
after so defective a plan, that tbe venture resulted in tbe 
sheer loss of two hundred thousand francs. Then he 
turned his attention to erecting houses,' insisting upon 
bringing personal ideas into execution, a well-matured 
general scheme which would revolutionize the building 
art. These ideas of his were the old theories he held 
from the revolutionary chums of his youth, everything 
that he had promised he would realize when he was free; 
but he had not properly reduced the theories to method, 
and he applied them unseasonably, with the heaviness 
of a good pupil lacking the sacred fire ; he experimented 
with terra cotta and pottery ornamentation, large bay 
windows, and especially with the employment of iron — 
iron girders, iron staircases, iron roofings; and as these 
materials increased the expense, he again ended with a 
catastrophe, which was all the greater as he was a piti- 
ful manager, and was losing his head since he had 
become rich, rendered more obtuse as it were by money, 
quite spoilt and at sea, unable even to return to his old 
habits of industry. This time Margaillan grew angry; 
he who for thirty years had been buying ground, build- 
ing and selling again, estimating at a glance the cost and 
return of house property ; so many yards of building at 
so much the yard having to yield so many suites of 
rooms, at so much rent. He wouldn’t have anything 
more to do with a fellow who blundered about lime, 
bricks, millstones, everything, who employed oak when 
deal would have done, and who couldn’t bring himself 
to cut up a story — like a consecrated wafer — into as 
many little squares as was necessary. Ho, no, none of 
that! He rebelled against art, after having been ambi- 
tious to introduce a little of it into his routine, to satisfy 
a long-standing worry about his own ignorance. And 
after that, matters had gone from bad to worse, terrible 


896 


A FINAL SPLITTING UP. 


quarrels had broken out between the son-in-law and the 
father-in-law, the former disdainful, intrenching himself 
behind his science, the latter shouting that the common- 
est laborer knew more than an architect did. The mil- 
lions were in danger, and one fine day Margaillan turned 
Dubuche out of his offices, forbidding him ever to set 
foot in them again, since he didn’t even know how to 
direct a building-yard where only four men worked. It 
was a disaster, a lamentable failure, the School of Arts 
collapsing, derided by a mason! 

At this point of Sandoz’s story, Claude, who had 
begun to listen to his friend, inquired : 

“Then, what is Dubuche doing now?” 

“I don’t know — nothing, probably,” answered Sandoz. 
“He told me that he was anxious about his children’s 
health, and was taking care of them.” 

That pale woman, Madame Margaillan, as slender as 
the blade of a knife, had died of tubercular consump- 
tion, which was plainly the hereditary disease, the 
source of the family’s degeneracy, for her daughter 
Eegine had been coughing since her marriage. At this 
moment she was drinking the waters at Mont-Dore, 
where she had not dared to take her children, as they 
had been very poorly the year before, after a season 
spent in that part, where the air was too keen for their 
debility. This explained the scattering of the family; 
the mother over there with her maid ; the grandfather 
in Paris, where he had resumed his great building enter- 
prises, battling amid his four hundred workmen, and 
crushing the idle and the incapable beneath his con- 
tempt; and the father in exile at La Richaudi^re, set to 
watch over his daughter and son, shut up there, after 
the very first struggle, as if it had broken him down for 
life. In a moment of effusion, Dubuche had even let 
Sandoz understand that his wife had almost died and 
was extremely delicate. 

“A nice marriage,” said Sandoz, by way of conclusion. 


A FINAL SPLITTING UP. 


897 


It was ten o’clock when the two friends rang at the 
iron gate of La Richaudi^re. The estate, with which 
they were not acquainted, amazed them; a superb park, 
a garden laid out in the French st3de with balustrades 
and steps spreading away in regal fashion, three vast 
conservatories and a colossal cascade, quite a piece cf 
folly, with its rocks brought from afar, and the quantity 
of cement and the number of conduits that had been 
employed; indeed the owner had sunk a fortune in it, 
out of sheer vanity. But what struck the friends still 
more was the melancholy, deserted aspect' of the domain, 
the gravel of the avenues carefully raked, with not a 
trace of footsteps; the distant expanses quite deserted 
save that now and then a solitary gardener passed by; 
the house looking dead with all its windows closed, with 
the exception of two which were barely set ajar. 

However, a valet, who had decided to show himself, 
began to question them, and when he learnt that they 
wished to see “monsieur,” he became insolent, and 
replied that “monsieur” was behind the house at the 
gymnasium, and then went in-doors again. 

Sandoz and Claude followed a path which led them 
towards a lawn, and what they saw there made them 
pause for a moment. Dubuche, who stood in front of a 
trapeze, was raising his arms to support his son Gaston, a 
poor sickly boy, who, at ten years of age, still had the 
slight, soft limbs of early childhood; while the girl 
Alice was seated in a perambulator, awaiting her turn. 
Prematurely born, she was so imperfectly developed 
that, although six years old, she was not yet able to 
walk. The father, absorbed in his task, continued exer- 
cising the slim limbs of his little boy, swinging him 
backwards and forwards, and vainly tried to make him 
raise himself up with his wrists. Then, as this slight 
effort sufficed to bring on a perspiration, he took the 
little chap down from the trapeze and rolled him in a 
rug: all amid complete silence, alone under the far 


398 


A FINAL SPLITTING UP. 


expanse of sky, liaving a look of distressful pity as he 
knelt there in this splendid park. However, as he rose 
up, he perceived the two friends. 

“What? it’s you! On a Sunday, and without warn- 
ing me!” 

He had made a gesture of annoyance, and he at onpe 
explained that the maid, the only woman to whom he 
could trust the children, went to Paris on Sundays, and 
that it was consequently impossible for him to leave 
Gaston and Alice for a minute. 

“I bet you came to lunch,?” he added. 

As Claude gave Sandoz an imploring glance, the nov- 
elist made haste to answer: 

“No, no. As it happens we only have time enough 
to shake hands with you. Claude had to come down 
here on a business matter. He lived at Bennecourt, as 
you know. And as I accompanied him, we took it into 
our heads to walk on as far as here. But there are peo- 
ple waiting for us, so don’t disturb yourself in the least.” 

Thereupon, Hubuche, who felt relieved, made a show 
of detaining them. They certainly had an hour to 
spare, dash it all! And they all three began to talk. 
Claude looked at Hubuche, astonished to find him so 
aged; his fiabby face had become wrinkled, it was of 
a yellow tint, streaked with red, as if bile had splashed 
his skin; whilst his hair and his moustach were already 
growing gray. In addition, his figure appeared to have 
become more compact; a bitter weariness made each of 
his gestures seem an effort. Were defeats in money 
matters as hard to bear, then, as defeats in art ? Every- 
thing about this vanquished man, his voice, his glance, 
proclaimed the shameful dependency in which he had to 
live — the bankruptcy of his future which was cast in his 
teeth, the constant charge of having allowed a talent 
which he did not possess to be inscribed in the marriage- 
contract, the money of the family which he now-a-days 
stole with what he eat, the clothes he, wore, and the 


A FINAL SPLITTING UP. 


399 


pocket money lie needed; in fact, tlie perpetual alms 
wliicli were bestowed upon him, just as they might have 
been bestowed upon some vulgar swindler, whom one 
couldn’t get rid of. 

“Wait for me,” resumed Dubuche; “I have to stop 
hqre five minutes longer with one of my poor duckies, 
and afterwards we’ll go indoors.” 

Gently, and with infinite, motherly precautions, he 
removed little Alice from the perambulator, and lifted 
her to the trapeze ; and then, stammering coaxing words 
and smiling, he encouraged her, and left her hanging for 
a couple of minutes, so as to develop her muscles; but 
he remained with open arms, watching each movement 
with the fear of seeing her smashed to pieces should 
fatigue make her weak little, wax-like hands relax their 
hold. She did not say anything, but obeyed him in 
spite of the terror that this exercise caused her; and 
she was so pitifully light in weight that she did not 
even fully stretch the ropes, being like one of those 
scraggy little birds which fall from a young shoot with- 
out as much as bending it. 

At this moment, Dubuche, having given Gaston a 
glance, became distracted on remarking that the rug had 
slipped and that the child’s legs were uncovered. 

“Good heavens! good heavens! Why, he’ll catch cold 
on this grass! And I, who can’t move. Gaston, my 
little dear! It’s the same thing every day; you wait till 
I’m occupied with your sister. Sandoz, pray, cover 
him! Ah! thanks; pull the rug up more, don’t be 
afraid ! ” 

This was what his splendid marriage had brought — 
these two incomplete little beings, whom the least breath 
from the sky threatened to kill like flies. Of the fortune 
he had married this was all that remained to him, the 
constant grief of seeing his blood become polluted, instil- 
ling pain in this lamentable son and daughter who would 
rotten his race, now fallen to the final degeneracy of scro- 


400 


A FINAL SPLITTING UP. 


fula and plithisis. And this big egotistical fellow bad 
revealed himself as an admirable father, whose heart was 
inflamed by one passion alone. The only determination 
that remained to him was that he would make his chil- 
dren live, and he struggled on hour after hour, saving 
them every morning and dreading to lose them every 
night. They alone existed now amid his finished exis- 
tence, amid the bitterness of his father-in-law’s insulting 
reproaches, the dull days and the icy nights which his 
sorry wife had brought him; and he kept to his task in 
desperation, he finished bringing these children into the 
world, as it were, by a constant miracle of tenderness. 

“There, my darling, that’s enough, isn’t it?” he said. 
“You’ll see how you’ll become big and pretty.” 

He then placed Alice in the perambulator again, took 
Gaston, who was still wrapped up, on one of his arms ; 
and when his friends wished to help him, he declined 
their offer, impelling the little girl’s vehicle with his 
right hand, which had remained free. 

“Thanks,” he said, “I’m accustomed to it. Ah! the 
poor darlings are not heavy; and, besides, with servants 
one can never be sure.” 

On entering the house Sandoz and Claude again saw 
the valet who had been so insolent; and they noticed 
that Dubuche trembled before him. The kitchen and 
the hall shared the contempt of the father-in-law, who 
paid for everything, and treated “madame’s” husband 
like a beggar whose presence was merely tolerated out 
of charity. Each time that a shirt was got ready for him, 
each time that he asked for some more bread, the ser- 
vants’ impolite gestures made him feel that he was 
receiving alms. 

“Well, good-bye, we must leave you,” said Sandoz, 
who suffered at sight of all this. 

“No, no, wait a l3it. The children are going to break- 
fast, and afterwards I’ll accompany you with them. 
They must go for their outing.” 


A FINAL SPLITTING UP. 


401 


Each day was regulated hour by hour. Of a morning 
the baths, the gymnastics, then the breakfast which was 
quite an affair, as the children needed special food, duly 
discussed and weighed, and matters were carried to such 
a point that even their wine and water was made slightly 
warm, for fear that too chilly a drop might give them a 
cold. On this occasion they were each given the yolk 
of an egg diluted in some broth, and a mutton cutlet 
which the father cut up into tiny morsels. Then, prior 
to the siesta, came the promenade. 

Sandoz and Claude found themselves once more out- 
of-doors, going along the broad avenues with Dubuche, 
who again impelled Alice’s perambulator, whilst Gaston 
now walked beside him. They talked about the estate 
as they went towards the gate. The master glanced 
over the park with timid, nervous eyes, as if he had not 
felt himself at home. Besides, he did not know anything, 
he did not occupy himself about anything. He appeared 
to have forgotten even his architect’s profession which 
he was accused of being ignorant of, he seemed to have 
gone astray, to be bowed bown by sheer inaction. 

“And your parents, how are the}^?” asked Sandoz. 

A flame was once more kindled in Dubuche’s dim eyes. 

“Oh! my parents are happy,” he said. “I bought 
them a little house, where they live on the annuity 
which I had specified in my marriage-contract. Well, 
you see, mamma had advanced enough money for my 
education, and I had to return it all, as I had promised, 
eh? Yes, I can say that my parents have nothing to 
reproach me with.” 

Having reached the gate, they tarried there for a few 
minutes. At last, still looking crushed, Dubuche shook 
hands with his old comrades; and retaining Claude’s 
hand in his, he concluded, as if making a simple state- 
ment of fact quite devoid of anger: 

“Good-bye, try to get out of worry! As for me, I’ve 
spoilt my life.” 

25 


402 


A FINAL SPLITTING UP. 


And they watclied him walk back towards the house, 
pushing the perambulator, and supporting Gaston who 
was already stumbling with fatigue — himself, Dubuche, 
with his back bent and the heavy tread of an old man. 

One o’clock was striking, and they both hurried down 
towards Bennecourt, saddened and ravenous. ' But melan- 
choliness awaited them there as well; a murderous wind 
had swept over the place, the Faucheurs, husband and 
wife, old Porrette; were all dead; and the inn, having 
fallen into the hands of that goose Melie, was becoming 
repugnant with its filth and coarseness. They were 
served an abominable repast — hairs in the omelette, cut- 
lets smelling of grease — in the centre of the common 
room, where an open window admitted the pestilential 
odor and which was so full of flies that they positively 
blackened the tables. The heat of the burning afternoon 
came in with the stench, and Claude and Sandoz did not 
even feel the courage to order any cofiee; they fled. 

“And you who used to extol old Mother Faucheur’s 
omelettes,” said Sandoz. “The place is done for. We 
are going for a turn, eh?” 

Claude was inclined to refuse. Since the morning he 
had had but one idea, of walking on as fast as possible, 
as if each step shortened the disagreeable task and brought 
him back towards Paris. His heart, his head, his whole 
being had remained there. He looked neither to right 
nor to left, gliding along without distinguishing aught of 
the fields or the trees, having but one fixed idea under 
his skull, and a prey to such hallucinations that at cer- 
tain moments he fancied that the point of La Citd rose 
up and called to him amid the vast expanse of stubble. 
TTowever, Sandoz’s proposal aroused memories within 
him; and, softening somewhat, he replied: 

“Yes, that’s it, we’ll have a look.” 

But, as they advanced along the river bank, he became 
indignant and grieved. He could scarcely recognize the 
})lace. A bridge had been built to connect Bennecourt 


A FINAL SPLITTING UP. 


403 


witli Bonni^res: a bridge, good heavens! in the place of 
that old ferry-boat, grating against its chain, and the 
black form of which, cutting athwart the current, had 
been so full of interest to the artistic eye. Moreover, the 
dam established down stream at Port-Yillez had raised 
the level of the river, most of the islands were submerged, 
and the little armlets of the stream had become broader. 
There were no more pretty nooks, no more rippling 
alleys amid which one could lose one’s self; it was a dis- 
aster to make one inclined to strangle all the river 
engineers 1 

“Why, that clump of pollards still emerging from the 
water on the left,” cried Claude, “was the Barreux island 
where we used to chat together, lying down on the grass, 
you remember? Ah! the scoundrels!” 

Sandoz, who could never see a tree felled without shak- 
ing his fist at the wood-cutter, turned pale with the same 
anger, and felt exasperated that the authorities had thus 
dared to mutilate nature. 

Then, as Claude approached his old home, he became 
silent, with his teeth clenched. The house had been 
sold to some middle-class people, and now there was an 
iron gate, against which he pressed his face. The rose 
bushes were all dead, the apricot trees were dead also, 
the garden, which looked very trim, with its little path- 
ways and its square cut beds of flowers and vegetables, 
bordered with box, was reflected in a large ball of plated 
glass set on a stand right in the centre; and the house, 
newly white-washed, painted at the corners, and round 
the doors and windows, so as toiikimitate free, stone, seemed 
like some clownish parvenu awkwardly arrayed in his 
Sunday toggery — a sight which fairly enraged the painter. 
No, no, nothing of himself, nothing of Christine, nothing 
of the great love of their youth remained there. He 
wished to look still further; he turned round behind the 
house, and sought for the copse of oak trees where they 
had left the living quiver of their life; but the copse 


404 


A FINAL SPLITTING UP. 


was dead, dead like all the rest, felled, sold and burnt. 
Then he made an anathematizing gesture, in which he 
threw all his grief to this stretch of country which was 
now so changed that he could not find there one single 
token of his life. And so a few years sufficed to efi'ace 
the spot where one had labored, tasted enjoyment and 
suffered? What was the use of vain agitation if the 
wind, behind advancing man, swept and carried away 
all the traces of his footsteps? He had rightly realized 
that he ought not to return there, for the past is but the 
cemetery of our illusions, where onr feet forever stumble 
against tombstones. 

“Let us go,” he cried; “let ns go at once! It’s stupid 
to torture one’s heart like this 1 ” 

When they were on the new bridge, Sandoz tried to 
calm him by showing him the view which had not for- 
merly existed, the widened bed of the Seine full to the 
brim as it were, and the water flowing onward, proudly 
slow. But this water failed to interest Claude any 
longer, until he reflected that it was the same water 
which, as it passed through Paris, had bathed the old 
quay walls of the Citd; and then he was touched, he 
leant over the parapet of the bridge for a moment, and 
thought he could distinguish glorious reflections in the 
water, the towers of Notre-Dame, and the needle-like 
spire of the Sainte Chapelle being carried along by the 
current towards the sea. 

The two friends missed the three o’clock train, and it 
was real torture to have to spend two long hours more 
in this neighborhood, where everything seemed to weigh 
so heavily on their shoulders. Fortunately, they had 
forewarned Christine and Madame Sandoz that they 
might return by a night train if they were detained. So 
they resolved upon a bachelor dinner at a restaurant on 
the Place du Havre, to try and set themselves all right 
again by a good chat at dessert as in former times. 


A FINAL SPLITTING UP. 


405 


Eiglit o’clock was about to strike wlien they sat down to 
table. 

Claude, on leaving the terminus, with his feet once 
more on the Paris pavement, had lost his nervous agita- 
tion, like a man who at last finds himself once more at 
home. And with the cold, absorbed air which he now 
generally retained, he listened to the chatter of San- 
doz trying to enliven him. The novelist treated his 
friend like a woman whose head he wished to turn; they 
partook of delicate, highly spiced dishes and heady 
wines. But mirth was rebellious, and Sandoz himself 
ended by becoming gloomy. All his hopes of immor- 
tality were shaken by this excursion to that ungrateful 
country village, that Bennecourt, so loved and so forget- 
ful, where they had not found as much as a stone retain- 
ing any recollection of them. If things which are 
eternab forgot so soon, could one place any reliance for 
one hour on the memory of man? 

“Do you know, old fellow,” said the novelist, “it’s 
that which sometimes sends me into a cold sweat. 
Have you ever reflected that posterity may not be the 
impeccable meter-out of justice whom we dream of? 
One consoles one’s self for being insulted and denied by 
relying on the equity of centuries to come ; just like the 
faithful who endure all the abominations of this earth in 
the firm belief of another life in which each one will be 
treated according to his deserts. But suppose paradise 
no more exists for the artist than it does for the catholic, 
suppose that future generations prolonged the misunder- 
standing and preferred amiablC' little trifles to vigorous 
works! Ah! what a sell it would be, eh? To have led 
a convict’s life — screwed down to work — all for a mere 
chimera! Please notice that it’s quite possible after all. 
There are some consecrated reputations which I wouldn’t 
give a rap for. Classical education has deformed every- 
thing, and has imposed upon us as geniuses fellows of 
facile talent who followed the beaten track ; but to them 


406 


A FINAL SPLITTING UP. 


one may prefer men of free tendencies, whose work is at 
times unequal. They are only known, however, to a 
few people of real Qulture, so that it looks as if immor- 
tality might really go merely to the middle-class 
‘average’ talent, to the men whose names are forced into 
our brains at school when we are not strong enough to 
defend ourselves. But no, no, one mustn’t say these 
things; they make me shudder! Should I have the 
courage to go on with my task, should I be able to 
remain erect amid all the jeering, if I hadn’t the con- 
soling illusion that I shall some day be appreciated 1” 

Claude had listened with his air of suffering, and he 
now made a gesture of indifference tinged with bitter- 
ness. 

“Bah! what does it matter? Well, there’s nothing 
hereafter. We are even madder than the fools who kill 
themselves for a woman. When the earth splits to 
pieces in space like a dry walnut, our works won’t add 
one atom to its dust.” 

“That’s quite true,” summed up Sandoz, who was very 
pale. “What’s the use of trying to fill up the void of 
space? And to think that we know it, and that our 
pride still battles all the samel” 

They left the restaurant, roamed about the streets and 
foundered again in the depths of a cafd where they phi- 
losophized. They had come by degrees to raking up the 
memories of their childhood, and this ended by filling 
their hearts with sadness. One o’clock in the morning 
struck when they decided to go home. 

However, Sandoz talked of seeing Claude as far as the 
Eue Tourlaque. This August night was a superb one, 
the air warm, the sky studded with stars. And as they 
went the round by way of the Quartier de I’Europe, they 
passed before the old Cafe Baudequin on the Boulevard 
des Batignolles. It had changed hands three times; it 
was no longer arranged in the same manner inside; there 
were now a couple of billiard tables on the right hand; 


A FINAL SPLITTING UP. 


407 


and several strata of customers liad followed each other 
there, one covering the other, so that the old frequenters 
had disappeared like buried nations. However, curiosity, 
the emotion they had derived from all the dead things 
they had been raking up together, induced them to cross 
the boulevard and to glance into the caf^ through the 
open doorway. They wanted to see their table of yore, 
on the left hand, right at the back of the room. 

“ Oh, look ! ” said Sandoz, stupefied. 

“Gagni^re!” muttered Claude. 

It was, indeed, Gagni^re seated all alone at that table, 
at the end of the empty cafe. He must have come from 
Melun for one of those Sunday concerts to which he 
treated himself; and then, in the evening, while he was 
astray in Paris, an old habit of his legs had led him up 
to the Cafe Baudequin. Not one of the comrades ever 
set foot there now, and he, who had beheld another age, 
obstinately remained there alone. He had not yet 
touched his glass of beer; he was looking at it, so 
absorbed in thought that he did not even stir when the 
waiters began piling the chairs on the tables so that 
everything might be ready for the morrov/’s sweeping. 

The two friends hurried off, upset by the sight of this 
vague figure, and seized, as it were, with a childish fear 
of ghosts. They parted in the Rue Tourlaque. 

“Ah I that poor devil, Dubuche!” said Sandoz, as he 
pressed Claude’s hand, “he spoilt our day for us.” 

As soon as November had come round, and when all 
the old friends were back in Paris again, Sandoz thought 
of gathering them together at one of those Thursday 
dinners which had remained a habit with him. They 
were always his greatest delight; the sale of his books 
was increasing and he was growing rich; the flat in the 
Rue de Londres was becoming quite luxurious compared 
with the little house at Batignolles; but he himself 
remained immutable. On this occasion, he was anxious, 
in his good nature, to procure real enjoyment for Claude 


408 


A FINAL SPLITTING UP. 


hy organizing one of the dear evenings of their youth. 
So he saw to the invitations; Claude and Christine nat- 
urally; Jory and his wife, the latter of whom it had been 
necessary to receive since her marriage; then Dubuche 
who always came alone, with Fagerolles, Mahoudeau, and 
finally Gagniere. There would be ten of them; all the 
men comrades of the old band, without a single outsider, 
so that the good understanding and jollity might be 
complete. 

Henriette, who was more mistrustful than her husband, 
hesitated when this list of guests was decided on. 

“Ohl Fagerolles? You believe in having Fagerolles 
with the others? They hardly like him — nor Claude 
either; I fancied I noticed a coolness — ” 

But he interrupted her, bent on not admitting it. 

“What! a coolness? It’s really funny, but women 
can’t understand that fellows chaff each other. That 
doesn’t prevent them, however, from having their hearts 
in the right place.” 

Henriette took especial care in preparing the menu 
for that Thursday dinner. She now had quite a little 
staff* to overlook, a cook, a man-servant, and so on ; and 
if she no longer prepared any of the dishes herself, she 
still saw that very delicate fare was provided out of 
affection for her husband whose only vice was gluttony. 
She went to market with the cook and called in person 
on the tradespeople. She and her husband had a taste 
for gastronomical curiosities from the four corners of the 
world. On this occasion they decided to have some ox- 
tail soup, grilled mullet, undercut of beef with mush- 
rooms, raviolis in the Italian fashion, hazel hens from 
Eussia, and a salad of truffles, without counting caviare 
and kilkis as side-dishes, a glace pralin^e, and a little 
emerald -colored Hungarian cheese, with fruit and pastry. 
As wine, some old Bordeaux claret in decanters, Cliam- 
bertin with the roast, and sparkling Moselle at dessert 
in lieu of Champagne which was voted commonplace. 


A FINAL SPLITTING UP. 


409 


At seven o’clock Sandoz and Henriette were waiting 
for their guests, he simply wearing a jacket, and she 
looking very elegant in a plain dress of black satin. 
People dined at their place in frock coats, without any 
fuss. The drawing-room, the arrangements of which 
they were now completing, was becoming crowded with 
old furniture, old tapestry, nick-nacks of all countries and 
all times — a rising stream now overflowing which had 
taken its source at Batignolles with the old pot of Eouen 
ware which Henriette had given her husband on one of 
his fete days. They ran about to the curiosity sho})s 
together; they had a joyful passion for buying; and he 
now satisfied old longings of his youth, romanticist ambi- 
tions, which the first books he had read had given birth 
to; and thus this writer, so fiercely modern, lived amid 
the worm-eaten middle ages which he had dreamt of 
when he was a lad of fifteen. As an excuse, he laugh- 
ingly said that handsome modern furniture cost too dear, 
whilst with old things, even common ones, you imme- 
diately obtained something with effect and color. There 
was nothing of the collector about him, he was entirely 
concerned as to decoration and broad effects ; and, to tell 
the truth, the drawing-room, lighted by two lamps of old 
Delft ware, had quite a soft and warm tint with the dull 
gold of the dalmaticas used for upholstering the seats, the 
yellowish incrustations of the Italian cabinets and Dutch 
show-cases, the faded hues of the Oriental door-hangings, 
tlie hundred little notes of the ivory, crockery and 
enamel work, grown pale with age, and standing out 
against the dull, neutral, red hangings of the room. 

Claude and Christine were the first to arrive. The 
latter had put on her only silk dress, an old, worn-out 
garment which she preserved with especial care for simi- 
lar occasions. Henriette at once took hold of both her 
hands and drew her on to a sofa. She was very fond of 
her and questioned her, seeing her so strange, touchingly 
pale, and with anxious eyes. What was the matter? 


410 


A FINAL SPLITTING UP. 


Did slie feel poorly? No, no, slie answered that she was 
very gay and very much pleased to come, and, while she 
spoke, her eyes glanced every minute at Claude as if to 
study him, and then turned away. He seemed excited, 
with a feverishness in his words and gestures which he 
had not shown for a month past. At intervals, however, 
his agitation subsided, and he remained silent Avith his 
eyes wide open, gazing vacantly into space at something 
which he fancied was calling him. 

“All! old man,” he said to Sandoz, “I finished read- 
ing your book last night. It’s deucedly clever; you 
have shut up their mouths this time!” 

They both talked standing in front of the chimney- 
piece where some logs were blazing. Sandoz had, indeed, 
just published a new novel, and, although the critics did 
not disarm, there was at last that stir of success which 
establishes a man’s reputation despite the persistent 
attacks of his adversaries. Besides, he had no illusions ; 
he knew very well that the battle, even if it were won, 
would begin again at each fresh book he wrote. The 
great work of his life was advancing, that series of 
novels, the volumes which he launched forth one after 
another in obstinate, regular fashion, marching towards 
the goal he had selected without letting anything con- 
quer him, either obstacles, or insults, or fatigue. 

“It’s true,” he gayly replied, “they are weakening this 
time. There’s even one who has been foolish enough to 
admit that I’m an honest man. See how everything 
degenerates! But they’ll make up for it, never fear! 
I know some of them Avhose heads are too much unlike 
my own for them ever to accept my literary formula, my 
boldness of language, my physiological characters mov- 
ing about under the influence of circumstances; and I 
speak of brother writers who possess self-respect; I 
leave the fools and the scoundrels on one side. For a 
man to be able to work on pluckily, it is best for him 


A FINAL SPLITTING UP. 


411 


not to expect either good faith or justice. To be in the 
right he must begin bj dying.” 

Claude’s eyes abruptly turned towards a corner of the 
drawing-room, transpiercing the wall and going far away 
yonder, whither something had summoned him. Then 
they become hazy and came back from their journey, 
whilst he exclaimed : 

“ Oh ! you speak for yourself! I should do wrong to 
kick the bucket. No matter, your book sent me into a 
deuced fever. I wanted to paint to-day, but I couldn’t. 
Ah! it’s lucky that I can’t get jealous of you, else you 
would make me too unhappy.” 

However, the door had opened, and Mathilde come in, 
followed by Jory. She was richly attired in a tunic of 
nasturtium-tinted velvet and a skirt of straw-^colored 
satin, with diamonds in her ears and a large bouquet of 
roses on her bosom. What astonished Claude the most 
was that he did not recognize her, for she had become 
plump, round and fair skinned, in lieu of thin and sun- 
burnt as he had known her. Her disturbing ugliness 
had melted away in a swelling of the face, her mouth, 
once noted for its black voids, now displayed teeth, 
which looked too white, whenever she condescended to 
smile, with a disdainful turning-up of the upper lip. 
You could guess that she had become immoderately 
respectable, fcr five and forty summers lent her weight 
beside her husband, who was younger than herself and 
seemed to be her nephew. The only thing of yore that 
clung to her was a violent perfume ; she drenched herself 
with the strongest essences, as if she had been anxious 
to wash from her skin the smell of the aromatic simples 
with which the herbalist business had impregnated her; 
but the sharpness of the rhubarb, the bitterness of the 
elder-seed, the heat of the peppermint clung to her; and 
as soon as she crossed the drawing-room, it was filled 
with the undefinable smell of a chemist’s shop, relieved 
by an acute odor of musk. 


412 


A FINAL SPLITTING UP. 


Hennette, wlio had risen, made her sit down beside 
Christine, saying: 

“You know each other, don’t you? You have already 
met here.” 

Mathilde gave but a cold glance at the modest attire 
of this woman. She herself was exceedingly rigid 
respecting such matters since the tolerance prevailing in 
literary and artistic circles had admitted her into a few 
drawing-rooms. Henriette hated her, however, and 
after the customary exchange of courtesies, not to be 
dispensed with, resumed her conversation with Christine. 

Jory had shaken hands with Claude and Sandoz, and 
standing near them, in front of the fireplace, he apolo- 
gized for an article which had appeared that very morn- 
ing in his review, and which slashed the novelist’s new 
book. 

“As you know very well, my dear fellow, one is never 
the master in one’s own house I 1 ought to see every- 
thing, but I have so little time ! I hadn’t even read that 
article, so I relied on what had been told me about it. So 
you will understand how enraged I was when I read it 
this afternoon. I am dreadfully grieved, dreadfully 
grieved — ” 

“Oh, let it be. It’s the natural order of things,” 
replied Sandoz, quietly. “Now that my enemies are 
beginning to praise me, it’s only proper that my friends 
should attack me.” 

The door again opened and Gagni^re softly glided in, 
with the vague air of a droll shadow. He had arrived 
straight from Melun and was quite alone, for he never 
showed his wife to anybody. When he thus came to 
dinner he brought the country dust with him on his 
boots, and he carried it back with him the same night 
on taking the last train. On the other hand, he did not 
alter; or rather age seemed to rejuvenate him ; his com- 
plexion became fairer as he grew old. 

“Hallo! why, Gagni^re’s here!” exclaimed Sandoz. 


A FINAL SPLITTING UP. 


413 


Then, just as Gagniere was making up his jmind to 
bow to the ladies, Mahoudeau came in. He had already 
grown gray with his hollow, fierce-looking face and 
childish, blinking eyes. He still wore a pair of trousers 
a good deal too short for him, and a frock-coat which 
creased in the back, in spite of the money which he now 
earned; for the bronze manufacturer whom he worked 
for had brought out some charming statuettes of his, 
which you began to see on middle-class mantel-shelves 
and consoles. 

Sandoz and Claude had turned round, inquisitive to 
witness the meeting between Mahoudeau and Mathilde. 
However, matters passed off very quietly. The sculptor 
respectfully bowed to her, while Jory, the husband, with 
his air of serene unconsciousness, thouglitfit to introduce 
her to him, for the twentieth time, perhaps. 

“ Eh I it’s my wife, old fellow. Shake hands together.” 

Thereupon, both very grave, like people of society who 
are forced somewhat over promptly into familiarity, 
Mathilde and Mahoudeau shook hands. Only as soon as 
the latter had got rid of the job and had found Gagniere 
in a corner of the drawing-room, they both began sneer- 
ing and recalling, in terrible language, all the abomina- 
tions of yore. 

Dubuche was expected that evening, for he had form- 
ally promised to come. 

“Yes,” explained Henri ette. “ There will only be nine 
of us. Fagerolles wrote this morning to apologize — he 
is forced to go to some official dinner — but he hopes to 
escape, and will join us at about eleven o’clock.” 

At this moment, however, a servant came in with a 
telegram. It was from Dubuche, who telegraphed: 
“Impossible to stir. Alice has an alarming cough,” 

“Well, we shall only be eight, then,” resumed Hen- 
ri ette, with the somewhat peevish resignation of a host- 
ess disappointed by her guests. 


414 


A FINAL SPLITTING UP. 


And the servant having opened th^ dining-room door 
and announced that dinner was ready, she added: 

“We are all here. Claude, offer me your arm.” 

Sandoz took Mathilde’s, Jory charged himself with 
Christine, while Mahoudeau and Gagni^re brought up the 
rear, still joking coarsely about what they called the 
beautiful herbalist’s padding. 

The dining-room which they now entered was very 
spacious, and the light was gayly bright after the sub- 
dued illumination of the drawing-rcom. The walls, 
covered with specimens of old earthenware, displayed a 
gay medley of colors, reminding one of cheap colored 
prints. Two sideboards, one loaded with glass, and the 
other with silver plate, sparkled like jewellers’ show 
cases. And in the centre of the room, under the sus- 
pension-lamp girt round with tapers, the table glistened 
like a catalalco, with the whiteness of its cloth, laid in 
perfect style with decorated plates, cut glass decanters 
white with water or ruddy with win^, and symmetrical 
side dishes, all set out round the centrepiece, a basket 
of purple roses. 

They sat down, Henri ette between Claude and Mahou- 
deau, Sandoz with Mathilde and Christine beside him, 
Jory and Gagni^re at either end; and the servant had 
barely finished serving the soup, when Madame Jory 
made a most unfortunate remark. Wishing to show her- 
self amiable, and not having heard her husband’s apolo- 
gies, she said to the master of the house; 

“Well, were you pleased with the article in this morn- 
ing’s number? Edouard personally revised the proofs 
with the greatest care!” 

On hearing this, Jory became confused and stam- 
mered : 

“No, no! you are mistaken! It was a very bad 
article, indeed, and you know very well that it was 
‘passed’ the other evening while I was away.” 

B^the silent embarrassment which ensued she realized 


A FINAL SPLITTING UP. 


415 


her blunder. But slie made matters still worse, for giv- 
ing her husband a sharp glance, she retorted in a very 
loud voice so as to crush him, as it were, and disengage 
her own responsibility: 

“Another of your lies! I repeat what you told me. 
I won’t allow you to make me ridiculous, do you hear!” 

This threw a chill over the beginning of the dinner. 
Henriette recommended the kilkis, but Christine alone 
found them very nice. When the grilled mullet 
appeared, Sandoz, who was amused by Jory’s embai'rass- 
ment, gayly reminded him of a lunch they had had 
together at Marseilles in the old days. Ah 1 Marseilles, 
the only city where people know how to eat! 

Claude, who for a moment had been absorbed in 
thought, now seemed to awaken from a dream, and with- 
out any transition he asked: 

“Is it decided? Have they selected the artists for the 
new decorations of the Hotel de Ville?” 

“No,” said Mahoudeau; “they are going to do so. I 
sha’n’t get anything, for I don’t know any one. Fager- 
olles himself is very anxious. If he isn’t here to-night, 
it’s because matters are not going smoothly. Ah! he 
has had his bite at tlie cherry; all that painting for mil- 
lions is spoiling and cracking to bits!” 

- There was a laugh, expressive of spite finally satisfied, 
and even Gagni5re at the other end of the table indulged 
in the sneering. Then they eased their feelings in malic- 
ious words and rejoiced over the sudden fall of prices 
which had thrown the world of “young masters” into 
consternation. It was inevitable, the predicted time was 
coming, the exaggerated rise of prices was finishing in a 
catastrophe. Since the amateurs had been panic-striken, 
seized with the consternation of speculators when “a 
fall” sweeps over the Stock Exchange, prices were giving 
way day by day, nothing more was sold. It was a sight 
to see the famous Naudet amid the rout; he had held 
out at first, he had invented the stroke of the Yankee, 


416 


A FINAL SPLITTING UP. 


the unique picture hidden deep in some gallery, in soli- 
tude like an idol, the picture which he would not name 
the price of, being contemptuously certain that he could 
not tind a man rich enough to purchase it, but which he 
finally sold for two or three hundred thousand francs to 
some pig-dealer of New York, who felt glorious at 
carrying ofi:* the dearest canvas of the year. But these 
fine strokes of business were not to be renewed at pre- 
sent, and Naudet, whose expenditure had increased with 
his gains, drawn onward and swallowed up in the mad 
craze which was his own work, now heard his regal 
mansion crumbling beneath him, reduced to defend it 
against the assault of creditors. 

“Won’t you take some more mushrooms, Mahou- 
deau?” obligingly interrupted Henriette. 

The servant was now handing round the undercut; 
they ate, and emptied the decanters; but their bitterness 
was so great that the best things were offered without 
being tasted, which distressed the master and mistress 
of the house. 

“Mushrooms, eh?” the sculptor ended by repeating. 
“No, thanks,” and he added: “The funny part of it all 
is that Naudet is suing Fagerolles! Oh, quite so! he’s 
going to distrain on him. Ah! it makes me laugh! 
We shall see a pretty scouring in the Avenue de Villiers 
among all those petty painters with mansions of their 
own! House property will go for nothing next spring! 
AYell, Naudet, who had compelled Fagerolles to build a 
house, and who furnished it for him as he would have 
furnished a place for a woman, wanted to get hold of 
his nick-nacks and hangings again. But Fagerolles had 
borrowed money on them, so it seems. You can imagine 
the state of aftairs; the dealer accuses the artist of hav- 
ing spoilt his game by exhibiting, with the vanity of a 
giddy fool; while the painter replies that he doesn’t 
mean to be robbed any longer; and they’ll end by 
devouring each other, at least I hope so.” 


A FINAL SPLITTING UP. 


417 


Gagni^re raised liis voice, tlie gentle bat inexorable 
voice of a dreamer just awakened: 

“Fagerolles is done for! Besides, be never had any 
success.” 

The others protested. Well, what about the hundred 
thousand francs’ worth of pictures he had sold a year, 
and liis medals and his cross of the Legion of Honor? 
But Gagniere, still obstinate, smiled with a mysterious 
air, as if facts could not prevail against his inner con- 
viction. He wagged his head, and full of disdain, 
replied: 

“Let me be! He never knew anything about chia- 
roscuro.” 

Jory was about to defend the talent of Fagerolles, 
whom he considered his work, when Henriette asked 
for a little attention for the raviolis. Tliere was a short 
slackening of the quarrel amid the crystaline clinking 
of the glasses and the light clatter of the forks. The 
table, laid with such fine symmetry, was already in con- 
fusion, and seemed to sparkle still more amid the ardent 
fire of the quarrel. And Sandoz, growing anxious, felt 
astonished; what was the matter with them all that they 
attacked Fagerolles so harshly? Hadn’t they all begun 
together, and were they not all to reach the goal in tlie 
same victory? For the first time, a feeling of uneasiness 
disturbed his dream of eternity, that delight in his 
Thursdays, which he beheld following one upon another, 
all alike, all of them happy ones, into the far distance 
of the future. But the feeling was as yet only skin 
deep, and he laughingly exclaimed: 

“Husband your strength, Claude, here are the hazel- 
hens. Eh! Claude, where are you?” 

Since silence had prevailed, Claude had relapsed into 
his dream, gazing about him vacantly, and taking a sec- 
ond help of raviolis without knowing what he was 
about; Christine, who said nothing but sat there look- 
ing sad and charming, did not take her eyes off him. 


418 


A FINAL SPLITTING UP. 


He started when Sandoz spoke, chose a leg from amid 
the bits of hazel-hen now being served, the strong fumes 
of which filled the room with a resinous smell. 

“Do you smell that?” exclaimed Sandoz, amused; 
“one would think one was swallowing all the forests of 
Eussia.” 

But Claude returned to the matter which preoccupied 
him: 

“Then you say that Fagerolles will be entrusted with 
the paintings for the Municipal Council’s assembly 
room ? ” 

And this remark sufficed ; Mahoudeau and Gagni^re, 
set on the track, again started off’ at once. Ah! a nice 
wishy-washy smearing it would be if that assembly room 
was allotted to him; and he was doing plenty of dirty 
things to get it. He, who had formerly pretended to 
deride orders for work, like a great artist surrounded by 
amateurs, was basely cringing to the officials, now that 
his pictures no longer sold. Could anything more des- 
picable be imagined than a painter soliciting a function- 
ary, borrowing and scraping, showing all kinds of 
cowardice and making all kinds of concessions? It was 
shameful that art should be dependent upon a minister’s 
idiotic good pleasure! Fagerolles, at that official dinner 
he had gone to, was no doubt conscientiously licking the 
boots of some chief clerk, some idiot who was only fit to 
be made a guy of. 

“Well,” said Jory, “he eff’ects his purpose, and he’s 
quite right. You won’t pay his debts.” 

“Debts? Have I any debts, I who have always 
starved?” answered Mahoudeau in a roughly arrogant 
tone. “Ought a fellow to build himself a palace, and 
have friends like that Irma who ruins Fagerolles?” 

Gagniere again interrupted him, speaking oracularly 
in his distant, strange, cracked voice : 

“Irma! Why she pays him.” 

At this Jory grew angry, while the others jested, and 


A FINAL SPLITTING UP. 


419 


Irma’s name was flying about over the table, when 
Matbilde, who had so far remained reserved and silent 
by way of making a show of her good breeding, became 
intensely indignant, making wild gestures, and pursing 
her mouth with the prudish air of a devotee. 

“Oh! gentlemen, oh! gentlemen, to talk before us 
about that woman! No, not that woman, I implore 
you!” 

After that Henriette and Sandoz, who were in con- 
sternation, witnessed the rout of their menu. The 
truffle salad, the ice, the dessert, everything was swal- 
lowed without being appreciated amid the rising anger 
of the quarrel ; and the Chambertin and sparkling 
Moselle were absorbed as if they had merely been water. 
In vain did Henriette smile, while Sandoz good naturedly 
tried to calm them by making allowances for human 
weakness. Not one of them retreated; a single word 
made them spring desperately upon each other. There 
was none of the vague boredom, the somniferous sati- 
ety which at times had saddened their old gatherings; 
at present there was real ferociousness in the struggle, 
a longing to destroy one another. The tapers of the 
suspension-bimp flared up, the painted flowers of the 
earthenware on the walls bloomed, the table seemed to 
have caught fire amid the upsetting of its symmetrical 
arrangements and the violence of the talk, that demolish- 
ing which had filled them with fever for a couple of 
hours past. 

And amid the racket, when Henriette made up her 
mind to rise so as to silence them, Claude at length 
remarked : 

“Ah! if I only had the Hotel de Yille work, and if I 
could! It was my dream to cover the walls of Paris!” 

They returned into the drawing-room where the little 
chandelier and the bracket-candelabra had just been 
lighted. It seemed almost cold there in comparison 
with the kind of hot-house which had just been left; and 


420 


A FINAL SPLITTING UP. 


for a moment tlie coffee calmed the guests. ISTobody 
beyond Fagerolles was expected. The house was not an 
open one by any means, the Sandozes did not recruit lit- 
erary dependents, or muzzle the press by dint of invi- 
tations. The wife detested society, and the husband 
said with a laugh that he needed ten years to take a lik- 
ing to any one, and then he must like him always. But 
was not that real happiness, seldom realized? A few 
sound friendships, a nook full of family affection. No 
music was ever played there, and no one had ever read a 
page of his composition out loud. 

On that particular Thursday the evening seemed a 
long one, on account of the latent, persi stive irritation 
of the men. The ladies had begun to chat before the 
smouldering fire; and when the servant, after clearing 
the table, reopened the door of the dining room, they 
were left alone, the men repairing into the adjoining 
apartment to smoke, while sipping some beer. 

Sandoz and Claude, who were not smokers, soon 
returned, however, and sat down, side by side, on a sofa 
near the door. The former, who was glad to see his old 
friend excited and talkative, recalled the memories of 
Plassans apropos of a bit of news he had learnt the day 
before. Pouillaud, the old jester of the dormitory, who 
had become so grave a lawyer, was now in trouble. 
Ah! that beast of a Pouillaud! But Claude did not 
answer, for, having heard his name mentioned in the 
dining-room, he was listening attentively, trying to 
understand. 

Jory, Mahoudeau and Gagnibre, unsatiated and eager 
for another bite, had started on the massacre again. 
Their voices, at first mere whispers, gradually grew 
louder, till at last they began to shout. 

“Oh! the man, I abandon the man to you,” said Jory, 
who was speaking of Fagerolles. “ He isn’t worth much. 
And he outgeneraled you, it’s true; ah! how he did get 
the better of you fellows, by breaking off with you and 


A FINAL SPLITTING UP. 


421 


carving success for himself on your backs! You were 
certainly not at all cute.” 

Mahoudeau, waxing furious, replied: 

“ Of course ! It sufficed for us to be with Claude to be 
turned out of every where.’h 

“It was Claude who did for us,” so Gagni^re squarely 
asserted. 

And they went on, relinquishing Fagerolles, whom 
they reproached for toadying the newspapers, for allying 
himself with their enemies and wheedling sexegenarian 
baronesses, to fall upon Claude who now became the 
great culprit. Well, after all, the other fellow was only 
a simple trickster, like there are so many in the artistic 
fraternity, fellows who accost the public at street corners, 
leave their comrades in the lurch, and victimize them so 
as to get the middle-classes into their studios. But 
Claude, that abortive great artist, that impotent fellow 
who couldn’t set a figure on its legs in spite of all his 
pride, hadn’t he just compromised them, hadn’t he let 
them in! Ah! yes, success had lain in breaking off. If 
they had been able to begin over again, they wouldn’t 
have been idiots enough to cling obstinately to impossible 
principles! And they accused Claude of having paralyzed 
them, of having traded on them, yes, traded on them, but 
in so clumsy, dull-witted a manner that he had not derived 
any profit from it. 

“Why, as for me,” resumed Mahoudeau, “didn’t he 
make me quite idiotic at one moment? When I think 
over it, I feel myself, and I can’t understand why I ever 
joined his band. ‘Am I at all like him? Was there 
ever any one thing in common between us, eh? Ah! it’s 
exasperating to find the truth out so late in the day!” 

“And as for myself,” said Gagni^re, “he robbed me of 
my originality. Do you think it has amused me, each 
time I have exhibited a painting during the last fifteen 
years, to hear people saying behind me, ‘That’s a 
Claude!’ Oh! I’ve had enough of it. I nrefer not to 


422 


A FINAL SPLITTING UP. 


paint any more! All the same, if I had seen clearly, in 
former times, I shouldn’t have associated with him.” 

It was a stampede, the snapping of the last ties, amid 
their stupefaction at suddenly finding that they were 
strangers and enemies, after a long youth of fraternity 
together. Life had disbanded them on the road, and the 
great dissimilarity of their characters was revealed; all 
that remained in their throats was the bitterness of the 
old enthusiastic dream, that erstwhile hope of battle and 
victory side by side, which now increased their spite. 

“The fact is,” sneered Jory, “that Fagerolles did not 
let himself be pillaged like a simpleton.” 

But Mahoudeau, feeling vexed, became angry. “You 
do wrong to laugh,” he said, “ for you are a nice back- 
slider yourself. Yes, you always told us that you would 
give us a lift up when you had a paper of your own.” 

“Ah! allow me, allow me — ” 

Gagniere united with Mahoudeau: “That’s quite true! ” 
he said. “You won’t tell us again that what you write 
about us is cut out, for you are the master now ! And yet 
never a word, you didn’t even name us in your articles on 
the last Salon.” 

Jory, embarrassed and stammering, flew into a rage in 
his turn. 

“Ah ! well, it’s the fault of that cursed Claude ! I don’t 
care to lose my subscribers simply to please you fellows. 
It’s impossible to do anything for you; there, do you 
understand? You, Mahoudeau, you may wear yourself 
out in producing pretty little things; you, Gagniere, you 
may even never do anything more; but you each have a 
label on the back, and you’ll need ten years’ efforts before 
you’ll be able to get it off; and, in fact, there have been 
some labels that would never come off. The public is 
amused by it, you know ; there were only you fellows to 
believe in the genius of that big ridiculous lunatic, who 
will be locked up in a mad-house one of these fine morn- 
ings,” 


A FINAL SPLITTING UP. 


423 


Then the dispute became terrible, they all three spoke 
at once, coming, at last, to abominable reproaches, with 
such outbursts, and such furious motion of the jaws, 
that they positively seemed to be biting one another. 

Sandoz, seated on the sofa, and disturbed in the gay 
memories he was recalling, was, at last, obliged to lend 
an ear to the tumult which reached him through the 
open doorway. 

“You hear them?” whispered Claude with a smile of 
suffering; “they are giving it to me nicely! No, no, 
stay here, I won’t let you stop them ; I deserve it, since I 
have failed to succeed! ” 

And Sandoz, turning pale, remained there, listening to 
this bitter quarrelling, the outcome of the struggle for 
life, this spite of conflicting personalities grappling 
together, which bore his chimera of everlasting friend- 
ship away. 

Henriette, fortunately, became anxious on hearing the 
violent shouting. She rose up and went to shame the 
smokers for thus forsaking the ladies to go and quarrel 
together. They then all returned into the drawing- 
room, perspiring, breathing hard, and still shaken by 
their fit of anger. And as Henriette, with her eyes on 
the clock, remarked that they certainl}^ would not see 
Tagerolles that evening, they began to sneer again, 
exchanging glances. Ah! he had a fine scent, and no 
mistake; he wouldn’t be caught associating with old 
friends, who had become troublesome and whom he 
hated. 

In fact, Fagerolles did not come. The evening finished 
laboriously. They returned into the dining-room, where 
the tea was served on a Kussian tablecloth embroidered 
with a stag hunt in red thread; and under the tapers a 
plain cake was displayed with plates full of sweet stuff 
and pastry, and a barbarous collection of liquors, 
whisky, hollands, Ohio raki and kiimmel. The servant 
also brought some punch, and bestirred himself round 


424 


A FINAL SPLITTING UP. 


the table, while the mistress of the house filled the tea- 
pot from the samovar, boiling in front of her. But all 
the comfort, the feast for the eyes, the fine perfume of 
the tea did not relax their hearts. The conversation 
again turned on 'the success that some men met with, 
and the ill-luck that befell others. For instance, was it 
not shameful that art should be dishonored by all those 
medals, those crosses, all those rewards, so badly dis- 
tributed to boot? Were artists always to remain like 
little boys at school? All the platitude came from that 
— that docility and cowardice shown, as in the presence 
of ushers, so as to obtain good marks! 

When they had repaired to the drawing-room once 
more and just as Sandoz, who was greatly distressed, 
began to feel an ardent wish that they would take them- 
selves off, he noticed Mathilde and Gagniere, seated side 
by side on a sofa, and languishingly talking about music, 
while the others remained extenuated, lacking saliva, 
and their jaws with no strength left them. Gagniere 
was philosophizing and poetizing in a state of ecstacy, 
while Mathilde rolled up her eyes and went into raptures 
as if titillated by some invisible wing. They had caught 
sight of each other on the previous Sunday at the con- 
cert at the Cirque, and they apprised each other of 
their enjoyment in alternate, far-soaring sentences. 

“Ah! that Meyerbeer, monsieur, that overture of 
Struensee, that funereal strain, and then that peasant 
dance, so full of dash and color; and then the mournful 
burden which returns, the duo of the violoncellos. Ah! 
monsieur, the violoncellos, the violoncellos!” 

“And Berlioz, madame, the fete air in Borneo! Oh! 
the solo of the clarionets, the beloved women, with the 
harp accompaniment! Something enrapturing, some- 
thing white as snow which ascends. The fete bursts 
upon you like a picture by Paul Veronese, with the 
tumultuous magnificence of the Marriage of Cana ; and 


A FINAL SPLITTING UP. 


425 


then the love song begins again, oh I how .softly I oh ! 
always higher I higher still — ” 

“ Did you notice, monsieur, in Beethoven’s Symphony 
in A, that knell which ever and ever comes back and 
beats upon your heart? Yes, I see very well, you feel 
as I do, music is a communion. Beethoven, ah, me ! 
how sad and sweet it is to be two to understand him and 
give way — ” 

“And Schumann, madame, and Wagner, madame — 
Schumann’s ‘Keverie,’ nothing but the stringed instru- 
ments, a warm shower falling on the acacia leaves, a 
sun-ray which dries them, barely a tear in space. Wag- 
ner! ah 1 Wagner, the overture of the ‘Flying Dutchman,’ 
are you not fond of it? — tell me you are fond of it! As 
for myself, it overcomes me. There is nothing left, 
nothing left, you expire — ” 

Their voices died away, they did not even look at 
each other, but sat there elbow to elbow, their faces in 
the air, quite overcome. 

Sandoz, who was surprised, asked himself where 
Mathilde could have picked up this jargon. In some 
article of Jory’s, perhaps; besides, he had remarked that 
•Avomen talk music very well, even without knowing a 
note of it. And he, whom the bitterness of the others 
had only grieved, became exasperated at sight of Math- 
ilde’s languishing attitude. No, no, that was quite 
enough; the men tore each other to bits; still that might 
pass, after all; but Avhat an end to the evening, this 
feminine fraud, cooing and titillating herself with 
thoughts of Beethoven’s and Schumann’s music! 

Fortunately, Gagni^re suddenly rose up. He knew 
what o’clock it was even in the depths of his ecstacy, 
and he had only just the time to catch his last train. 
And, after exchanging nerveless and silent handshakes 
Avith the others, he went off to sleep at Melun. 

“What a failure he ist” muttered Mahoudeau. 
“Music has killed painting; he’ll never do anything!” 


426 


A FINAL SPLITTING UP. 


He himself had to leave, and the door had scarcely 
closed behind his back when Jory declared: 

“ Have you seen his last paper-weight ? He’ll end by 
sculpturing sleeve-links. There’s a fellow who has 
missed his aim. To think that he prided himself on 
being vigorous ! ” 

But Mathilde was already afoot, taking leave of Chris- 
tine with a dry little inclination of the head, affecting 
social familiarity with Henriette, and carrying off her 
husband, who helped her on with her cloak in the ante- 
room, humble and. terrified at the severe glance she gave 
him, for she had an account to settle. 

Then, the door having closed behind them, Sandoz, 
beside himself, cried out: “That’s the end! The jour- 
nalist was bound to call the others abortions — ^yes, the 
journalist, who, after patching up articles, has fallen to 
trading upon public credulity! Ah! luckily there’s 
Mathilde the Avenger!” 

Christine and Claude alone remained. The latter, 
since the drawing-room had been growing empty, had 
remained ensconced in the depths of an arm-chair, no 
longer speaking, being conquered again by that species 
of magnetic slumber which stiffened him and fixed his 
eyes on something afar off beyond the walls. He pro- 
truded his face, a convulsive kind of attention seemed to 
carry it forward; he certainly beheld something invisible, 
and heard a summons in the silence. 

Christine having risen up in her turn and apologized 
for being the last to leave, Henriette took hold of her 
hands, repeated how fond she was of her, begged of her 
to come and see her frequently, and to dispose of her in 
all things as she would with a sister. But Claude’s sor- 
rowful wife, looking so sadly charming in her black 
dress, shook her head with a pallid smile. 

“ Come,” said Sandoz in her ear, after giving a glance 
at Claude, “you musn’t distress yourself like that. He 


A FINAL SPLITTING UP. 


427 


has talked a great deal, he has been gayer this evening. 
He’s all right.” 

But in a terrified voice she answered : 

“No, no, look at his eyes — I shall tremble as long as 
he has his eyes like that. You have done all you could, 
thanks. What you haven’t done no one will do. Ah ! 
how I suffer at not being able to hope, at not being able 
to do anything 1’’ 

Then in a loud tone she asked : 

“Are you coming, Claude? ” 

She had to repeat her question twice, for at first he 
did not hear her; he ended by starting, however, and 
rose to his feet, saying, as if he had answered the sum- 
mons from the horizon afar off* : 

“Yes, I’m coming, I’m coming.” 

When Sandoz and his wife at last found themselves 
alone in the drawing-room, where the atmosphere now 
was stifling — heated by the lights and heavy, as it were, 
with melancholy silence after the evil outbursts of the 
quarrels — they looked at each other and let their arms 
fall, quite heart-rent by the unfortunate issue of their 
dinner party. • She tried to laugh it off*, however, mur- 
muring : 

“ I warned you, I quite understood — ” 

But he interrupted her with a despairing gesture. 
What! was that, then, the end of his long illusion, that 
dream of eternity which had made him set happiness 
in a few friendships, formed in childhood and shared 
until extreme old age? Ah! what a lamentable band, 
what a final splitting up, what a terrible balance sheet 
to weep over after this bankruptcy of the human heart! 
And he grew astonished on thinking of the friends who 
had fallen off* by the roadside, of the great affections 
lost on the way, of the others unceasingly changing 
around himself, in whom he found no change. His poor 
Thursdays filled him with pity, so many memories in 
mourning, the slow death of what one loves! Would 


428 


A FINAL SPLITTING UP. 


his wife and himself have to resign themselves to live 
as in a desert, to cloister themselves in utter hatred of 
the world ? Should they rather throw their doors wide 
open to the throng of strangers and indifferent folks? 
By degrees a certainty dawned in the depths of his 
grief: everything ended and nothing began again in life, 
lie seemed to yield to evidence, and said, heaving a 
big sigh: 

“You were right. We won’t invite them to dinner 
again — they would devour one another.” 

As soon as Claude and Christine reached the Place de 
la Trinite on their way home, the painter let go of his 
wife’s arm, and stammering that he had to go somewhere, 
he begged of her to return to the Rue Tourlaque without 
him. She had felt him shake with a great shudder, and 
she remained quite scared with surprise and fear. Some- 
where to go to at that hour — past midnight I Where had 
he got to go to, and what for? He had turned round and 
was making off, when she overtook him, and, pretending 
that she was frightened, begged that he would not leave 
her to climb up to Montmartre alone at that time of 
night. This consideration alone brought him back. He 
took her arm again; they ascended the Rue Blanche and 
the Rue Lepic, and at last found themselves in the Rue 
Tourlaque. And on reaching their door, he rang the 
bell, and then again left her. 

“Here you are,” he said; “I’m going.” 

He was already hastening away, taking long strides, 
and gesticulating like a madman. Without even closing 
the door which had been opened, she darted off, bent on 
following him. In the Rue Lepic she drew near; but 
for fear of exciting him still more she contented herself 
with keeping him in sight, walking along some thirty 
yards in the rear, without his knowing that she was 
behind him. On reaching the end of the Rue Lepic he 
went down the Rue Blanche again, and then took by 
way of the Rue de la Chaussde-d’Antin and the Rue du 


A FINAL SPLITTING UP. 


429 


Quartre Septembre as far as tbe Eue de Kiclielieu. When 
she saw him proceed along this last-named thorough- 
fare, a mortal chill came over her: he was going 
towards the Seine ; it was the realization of the frightful 
fear which kept her of a night awake with anguish. 
And what could she do, good Lord! Go with him, 
hang on to his neck over there? She was now only 
able to stagger along, and as each step brought them 
nearer to the river, she felt life ebbing from her limbs. 
Yes, he was going straight there; he crossed the Place 
du Theatre Fran9ais, then the Carrousel, and finally 
reached the Pont des Saints- P^res. After taking a few 
steps along the bridge, he approached the railing over- 
looking the water; and she thought he was jumping 
over, a loud cry was stifled in her contracted throat. 

But no; he remained motionless. Was it then only 
the Cite over yonder that haunted him, that heart of 
Paris which pursued him everwhere, which he conjured 
up with his fixed eyes, even through walls, and which, 
when leagues away, cried out that constant summons 
heard by him alone? She did not yet dare to hope it; 
she had stopped short, in the rear, watching him with 
giddy anxiety, ever fancying that she saw him take the 
terrible leap, resisting her. longing to draw nearer, and 
fearing that she might precipitate the catastrophe by 
showing herself. Oh, God! to think that she was there 
with her devouring passion, her bleeding motherly- 
heart, that she was there beholding everything without 
daring to risk one movement to hold him back! 

He stood erect, looking very tall, quite motionless, and 
gazing into the night. 

It was a winter’s night, with a misty sky of sootv 
blackness, which a sharp wind blowing from the west 
rendered extremely cold. Paris, lighted up, had gone to 
sleep, showing no signs of life save such as attached to 
the gas-jets, round specks which scintillated and grew 
smaller and smaller in the distance till they seemed but 


430 


A FINAL SPLITTING UP. 


a dust of fixed stars. The quays stretched away with, 
their double rows of these luminous beads, the reverbera- 
tion of which glimmered on the nearer frontages, the 
houses of the Quai du Louvre on the left, the two wings 
of the Institute on the right, confused masses of monu- 
ments and buildings, which were lost to view in the 
darkening shade, studded with distant sparks. Then 
between these cordons of burners, extending as far as 
tlie eye could reach, the bridges stretched their bars of 
lights, slighter and slighter, each formed of a train of 
spangles, grouped together and seemingly hanging in 
mid-air. And in the Seine there shone the nocturnal 
splendor of the animated water of cities; each gas-jet 
reflected its flame, a comet’s nucleus extending into 
a tail. The nearer ones, mingling together, set the cur- 
rent on fire with broad, regular, symmetrical fans, glow- 
ing like live embers, while the more distant ones, seen 
under the bridges, were but little motionless sparks of 
fire. But the large burning tails were animated, wag- 
ging as they spread out, black and gold, in a constant 
twirling of scales, in which one felt the infinite flow of 
the water. The whole Seine was lighted up by them, as 
if some fete were being given in its depths; some 
mysterious, fairy-like entertainment, with couples waltz- 
ing beneath the red-flashing window-panes of the river. 
High up above this fire, above the starry quays, the 
sky, in which not a planet displayed itself, showed a 
ruddy mass of vapor, that warm, phosphorescent exhala- 
tion which every night, above the sleep of the city, 
raises the crater of a volcano. 

The wind blew hard, and Christine, shivering, her 
eyes full of tears, felt the bridge turn under her, as if it 
were bearing her away amid a splitting up of the whole 
horizon. Had not Claude moved? Was he not climbing 
over the rail? No; everything became motionless again, 
and she saw him standing on the same spot, obstinately 


A FINAL SPLITTING UP. 


431 


stiff, with his eyes turned towards the point of the Cit^, 
which he could not see. 

It had summoned him, and he had come, and he 
couldn’t see it in the depths of the darkness. He could 
only distinguish the bridges, the light framework stand- 
ing out quite black against the sparkling water. But 
farther off, everything became confused, the island had 
disappeared, he would not even have been able to tell its 
exact situation if some belated cabs had not passed from 
time to time over the Pont-Neuf, with their lamps look- 
ing like those shooting sparks which dart at times 
through extinguished coal. A red lantern, on a level 
with the dam of the Mint, cast a streamlet of blood, as 
it were, into the water. Something huge and lugu- 
brious, some drifting form, no doubt a lighter which had 
become unmoored, slowly descended the stream amid 
the reflections; espied for a moment, and then imme- 
diately afterwards lost in the darkness. Where had the 
triumphal island sunk ? Into the depths of this flow of 
water? He still gazed, gradually fascinated by the great 
rushing of the river in the night. He leant over the 
broad bed of the stream, fresh like an abyss, and in 
which the mysterious flames were dancing. And the 
loud, sad noise of the current attracted him, he listened 
to its call, despairing unto death. 

By a shooting pain at her heart, Christine this time 
realized that the terrible thought had just occurred to 
him. She held out her vacillating hands which the 
wind was lashing. But Claude had remained there, 
struggling against the sweetness .of dying; and he did 
not move during another hour, remaining there uncon- 
scious of the lapse of time, with his eyes still fixed in 
the direction of the Cite, as if by a miracle of power 
they were about to create light and conjure up the island. 

When Claude at last left the bridge, with stumbling 
steps, Christine had to pass before him and run so as to 
be home in the Hue Tourlaque before him. 


432 


SUICIDE. 


CHAPTER XII. 

SUICIDE. 

I T was nearly three o’clock when they went to bed 
that night, with the bitter cold November wind 
blowing through their room and the vast studio. Chris- 
tine, breathless from her run, had quickly slipped 
between tbe sheets so that he might not know that she 
had followed him; and Claude, quite overcome, had 
taken his clothes off, one garment after another, without 
saying a word. For long months they had lain down 
side by side like strangers, and Christine had accepted 
the situation with proud, mute grief. Until that night, 
however, she had never felt such a barrier between them, 
such coldness, as if nothing henceforth could warm them. 

She struggled for nearly a quarter of an hour against 
the sleep which was coming over her. She felt very 
tirfed and a kind of torpor numbed her; still she would 
not give way, feeling anxious at leaving him awake. 
She waited every evening until he dozed off’ so that she 
herself might sleep in peace. But he had not extin- 
guished the candle, he lay there with his eyes open, fixed 
upon that flame which blinded him. What could he be 
thinking of? Had he remained over there in the black 
night, amid the moist breath of the quays in front of 
Paris studded with stars like a frosty sky? — and what 
inner conflict, what matter that had to be decided, con- 
tracted his face like* that? Then, resistance being impos- 
sible, she succumbed and glided into the oblivion follow- 
ing upon great weariness. 


SUICIDE. 


433 


An hour later, the consciousness of something missing, 
the anguish of uneasiness awoke her with a sudden start. 
She at once felt the place beside her, it was already cold: 
he was no longer there, she had already divined it while 
asleep. And she was growing alarmed, but half-awake, 
her head heavy and her ears buzzing, when through the 
doorway, left ajar, she perceived a ray of light coming 
from the studio. She then felt reassured, she thought 
that in a fit of sleeplessness he had gone to fetch some 
book; but, at last, as he did not return, she ended by 
softly rising so as to take a look. What she beheld 
quite unsettled her, and kept her standing on the tiled 
floor, with her feet bare, and in such surprise that she did 
not at first dare to show herself. 

Claude, who was in his shirt sleeves, despite the cold- 
ness of the temperature, having merely put on his trou- 
sers and slippers in his haste, was standing on the steps 
in front of the large picture. His palette was lying at 
his feet and with one hand he was holding the candle, 
while with the other he was painting. His eyes were 
dilated like those of a somnambulist, his gestures were 
precise and stiff, he stooped every minute to take some 
color on his brush and then rose up, casting a large fan- 
tastic shadow, with jerky, automatic movements, on the 
wall. And there was not a sound, frightful silence 
reigned in the vast dim room. 

Christine guessed the truth and shuddered. The beset- 
ting worry, made more acute by that hour spent on the 
Pont des Saints-Peres, had prevented him from sleeping 
and had brought him in front of his canvas, consumed 
with a longing to look at it again, in spite of the hour. 
He had, no doubt, only climbed the steps to fill his eyes 
the nearer. Then, tortured at sight of some faulty shade, 
upset by this defect to such a point that he could not 
wait for daylight, he had caught up a brush, at first 
merely wishing to give a simple touch, and then carried 
awav from correction to correction until at last, with the 
“ 27 


SUICIDE. 


434 

candle in his hand, he painted there like a man in hal- 
lucination, amid the pale light which darted here and 
there as he gesticulated. His powerless, creative rage 
had seized hold of him again, he was wearing himself 
out, oblivious of the hour, oblivious of the world • he 
wished to infuse life into his work at once. ’ 

Ah! what a pitiful sight, and with what tear-drenched 
eyes did Christine look at him I At first she thought of 
leaving him to this mad work, as a maniac is left to the 
pleasures of his craziness. He would never finish that 
picture, that was quite certain now. The more despe- 
rately he worked at it, the more incoherent it became, 
the coloring had grown heavy and impasted, the drawing 
was losing shape and was replete with signs of effort. 
Even the background and the group of laborers, formerly 
so substantial, were getting spoiled; and he clung to 
them, he had obstinately determined to finish everything 
else before repainting the central figure, the woman, 
which remained the fright, the desire of his hours of 
toil, the flesh which made him feel giddy and which 
would finish him off' on the day he again tried to invest 
it with life. For months past he had not touched it, and 
this had tranquillized Christine and made her tolerant 
and compassionate, amid her jealous spite; for, as long as 
he did not return to that feared woman, she thought 
he harmed her less. 

Her feet were freezing on the tiles and she was turn- 
ing to get into bed again when a shock brought her back 
to the door. She had not understood at first, but now 
at last she saw. With broad curved strokes of his 
brush, full of color, Claude was modelling plump flesh, 
his gestures wild and caressing. He had a fixed grin on 
his lips and did not feel the burning candle grease fall- 
ing on his fingers, while with silent, passionate see-saw- 
ing, his right arm alone moved against the wall, casting 
huge black confusion upon it, a mingling of twining 
limbs. He was working at the woman? ^ ^ 


SUICIDE. 


435 


Then Christine opened the door and walked into the 
studio. An invincible revolt, the anger of the spouse 
buffeted at home, impelled her forward. Yes, he was 
with that other, he was painting her like a -maddened 
visionary, whom the worry of truth had thrown into 
the exaltation of the unreal. She had suffered too 
much, she would not tolerate this treason. 

And yet at first she simply showed herself despairing 
and supplicating. It was but the mother remonstrating 
with her big mad boy of an artist. 

“What are you doing there, Claude? Is it reason- 
able, Claude, to have such ideas? I beg of you, don’t 
stay on those steps where you will catch your death of 
cold.” 

He did not answer, he stooped down again to take 
some more paint on his brush and he made the figure 
flash with two bright strokes of Vermillion. 

“Listen to me, Claude, in pity come with me — ^you 
know that I love you — ^you see how anxious you have 
made me. Come, oh come! If you don’t want me to 
die of cold and waiting for you.” 

With his face haggard, he did not look at her, but 
while he bedecked the figure with carmine, he launched 
out in a husky voice: 

“ Just leave me alone, will you ? I’m working.” 

Christine remained silent for a moment. She was 
drawing herself erect, her eyes began to gleam with a 
dark fire, rebellion inflated all her gentle, charming form. 
Then she burst forth, with the growl of a slave driven 
to extremities : 

“Well, no, I won’t leave you alone! I’ve had enough 
of it. I’ll tell you what’s stifling me, what has been 
killing me ever since I have known you! Ah! that 
painting, yes, your painting, she’s the murderess who 
has poisoned my life! I had a presentiment of it on 
the first day; your painting frightened me like a 
monster. I found it abominable, execrable; but then 


436 


SUICIDE. 


one’s cowardly, I loved you too mucli not to like it as 

well; I ended bv growing accustomed to that criminal! 

But, later on, how I sufiered, how it tortured me. For 
ten years I don’t recollect having spent a day without 
shedding tears! No, leave me, I am easing my mind, I 
must speak out, since I have found strength enough to 
do so. For ten years I have been abandoned, crushed 
every day. Ah ! not to be anything more to you, to feel 
myself cast more and more on one side, to fall to the 
rank of a servant; and to see that other one, that thief, 
place herself between you and me and clutch hold of 
you and triumph and insult me! For dare, yes, dare 
to say that she hasn’t taken possession of you, limb by 
limb, glided into your brain, your heart, your flesh, 
everywhere! She holds you like a vise, she feeds on 
you. In fact, she’s your wife, isn’t she? Ah! the cursed 
wretch, the hussy!” 

Claude was now listening to her, in his astonishment 
at this great cry of suffering; and being but half- roused 
from his exasperated creative dream, he did not as yet 
very well understand why she was talking to him like 
that. And at sight of his hebetude, the shuddering of 
a man surprised and disturbed in his debauch, she flew 
into a still greater passion, she mounted the steps, tore 
the candlestick from his hand, and in her turn flashed 
the light in front of the picture. 

“Just look,” she cried, “just tell me how you have 
advanced matters? It’s hideous, it’s lamentable and 
grotesque ; you’ll end by seeing so yourself. Come, isn’t 
it ugly, isn’t it idiotic? You see very well that you are 
conquered, so why should you persist any longer? 
There is no sense in it, that’s what upsets me ! If you 
can’t be a great painter, life, at least, remains to us. 
Ah! life, life.” 

She had placed the candle on the platform of the 
steps, and as he had gone down, staggering, she sprang 
off to join liirn^ and they both found themselves below, 


SUICIDE. 


437 


be, fallen on tlie last step, and slie, crouching, pressing 
his inert, dangling hands with all her strength. 

‘‘ Come, there’s life ! Drive your nightmare away, and 
let us live, live together. Isn’t it too stupid to be we 
two together, to be growing old already, and to torture 
ourselves, and be unable to find happiness? Oh! the 
grave will take us soon enough, never fear. Let’s try to 
warm ourselves, and live, and love one another. Kemem- 
ber Bennecourt ! Listen to my dream. I should like to 
be able to take you away to-morrow. We would go far 
from this cursed Paris, we would find a quiet spot some- 
where, and you would see how pleasant I would make 
your life; how nice it would be to forget everything 
together. Of a morning one lingers in bed, there are 
strolls in the sunlight, the breakfast which smells nice, 
the idle afternoon, the evening spent side by side under 
the lamp. And no more worrying about chimeras, noth- 
ing but the delight of living! Doesn’t it suffice that I 
love you, that I adore you, that I consent to be your 
servant, your slave, to exist solely for you? Do you 
hear, I love you, I love you ; there is nothing else, and 
that is enough — -I love you ! ” 

He had freed his hands, and making a gesture of 
refusal he said, in a gloomy voice: 

“Ho, it is not enough! I won’t go away with you, I 
won’t be happy, I will paint! ” 

“And I shall die -of it, eh? And you will die of it, 
and we shall end by leaving all our blood and all our 
tears in it! There’s nothing beyond Art, that is the 
Almighty, the fierce God Avho strikes us with his thunder, 
and whom you honor. He may crush us, he is the mas- 
ter, and you will bless his name!” 

“Yes, I belong to him, he may do what he pleases 
with me. I should die if I no longer painted, and I pre- 
fer to paint and die of it. Besides, my will is nothing in 
the matter. Hothing exists beyond it; let the world 
burst ! ” 


438 


SUICIDE. 


She drew herself up in a fresh spurt of anger. Her 
voice became harsh and passionate again. 

*‘But I, I am alive, and the women you love are dead! 
Oh! don’t say no. I know very well that all those 
painted women are your loves ! Before I was yours I 
had already perceived it! Wasn’t it unhealthy and 
stupid, such tastes in a man — to burn for images, to clasp 
an empty illusion in his arms; and you knew that it was 
so, for you tried to hide it like a thing not to be con- 
fessed. Then, for a short time, you appeared to love 
me. It was at that period that you told me all that 
nonsense! Do you remember? You held those shadows 
in pity when you were with me. But it didn’t last. 
You returned to them, oh! so quickly, like a maniac 
returns to his mania. I, although alive, no longer existed 
for you, it was they, the visions, who again became the 
only realities of your life. What I then endured you 
never knew, for you are wonderfully ignorant of women. 
I have lived by your side without your ever understand- 
ing me. Yes, I was jealous of those painted creatures. 
When I posed there, but one idea lent me the courage 
that I needed. I wanted to fight them, I hoped to win 
you back! Oh, God! how ashamed I was sometimes! 
What grief I had to swallow at finding myself so dis- 
dained and so betrayed! Since then your contempt has 
only increased ; and now, as you know, we have come to 
the point of lying down side by side every night like two 
strangers. It has lasted eight months and seven days; I 
have counted the time. Yes, eight months and seven 
days.” 

She continued boldly, she now spoke out freely — she, so 
strangely compounded of ardor and modesty, so ardent 
in love, and so discreet afterwards, who would never 
speak of all those things, but turned her head away with 
a confused smile. And she was not mistaken in her 
jealousy when she accused his art. She knew very well 
why he neglected her like that. 


SUICIDE. 


489 


“You repulse me,” she violently concluded; “you 
draw back from me as if I were displeasing to you. 
You go elsewhere, and to love what? A nothing, a mere 
semblance, a little dust, some color spread on a canvas! 
But, once more, look at her, look at your woman up 
there! See what a monster you have made of her in 
your madness. W ake up, open your eyes, return to life 
again!” 

Claude, obeying the imperious gesture with which she 
pointed to the picture, had now risen and was looking. 
The candle, which had stayed up there, on the plat- 
form of the steps, illumined the woman like a taper in 
front of an altar, whilst all the vast room remained 
plunged in darkness. He was at length awakening from 
his dream, and the woman, thus seen from below, at a 
distance of a few paces, filled him with stupefaction. 
Who had just painted this idol of some unknown 
religion? Who had wrought her of metals, marbles and 
gems? Was it he who had unconsciously created this 
unhuman presentment of flesh, which had become trans- 
formed into gold and diamonds under his fingers, in his 
vain effort to make it live ! And, gaping, he felt afraid 
of his work, trembling at thought of this sudden plunge 
into the infinite, and understanding very well that it had 
become impossible for him to depict Eeality, despite his 
long efibrt to conquer it and remould it, making it yet 
more real with his man’s hands. 

“You see! you see!” Christine repeated, victoriously. 

And he, in a very low voice, stammered: 

“Oh! what have I done? Is it impossible to create 
then? Haven’t our hands the power to create beings?” 

She felt that he was giving way, and she caught him 
in her arms : 

“But why all this folly, why think of anything else 
but me, I who love you? You took me for your model, 
you made copies of me. What was the use, say? Are 
these copies worth me? They are frightful, they are 


440 


SUICIDE. 


stiff and cold like corpses! But I am alive, and I love 
you. One must tell you everything, you don’t under- 
stand one; but when I loiter near you, when I offer to 
pose, when I am there brushing against you, beneath 
your breath, it means that I love you — do you hear? It 
means that I am alive, and that you must be mine—” 

Her face had become swollen, her soft eyes and limpid 
forehead were hidden by the twisted locks of her hair; 
slie only showed her salient jaw, her square, determined 
chin, her ruddy lips. 

“Oh! no, leave’ me,” muttered Claude. “Oh, I am 
too unhappy!” 

But in her ardent voice she answered: 

“ Perhaps you think that I am old. Yes, you told me 
that my figure was getting spoilt, and I myself believed 
it.’ I examined myself, I looked for the wrinkles while 
I was posing. But all that wasn’t true! I feel it well 
enough; I have not grown old. I am still young, still 
strong!” Then, as he continued struggling; “Look!” 
she cried. 

She had taken three steps backward, and, with a wide- 
spreading gesture, displayed herself in that pose which 
she had retained during so many long sittings. And 
with a simple movement of her chin she called his atten- 
tion to the picture. 

“Oh! you can compare; I am younger than she is. 
Although you have incrusted jewels in her flesh, she’s 
faded like a dry leaf. But I, I am still eighteen, because 
I love you!” 

And, indeed, in the pale light she looked radiant with 
youth. 

“Oh! come, oh, let us love one another! Have you no 
blood in your veins then, that shadows suffice you? 
Come and you will see how sweet it is to live!” 

He quivered, and little by little he returned her caress, 
in the fright which the other one, the idol, had caused 
him. She was softening him and conquering him. 


SUICIDE. 


441 


“Listen, I know that you had a frightful thought; yes, 
I never dared to speak to you about it, because one 
must never draw on misfortune; but I no longer sleep of 
a night, you frighten me! This evening I followed you 
to that bridge which I hate, and I trembled, oh! I 
thought that it was all over — that I had lost you ! Oh, 
God! what would become of me? I need you, you 
surely don’t want to kill me! Let us love one another, 
yes, love one another!” 

Then he yielded in the emotion caused him by this 
infinite love. It was an immense sadness, a vanishing 
of the whole world in which his being melted. He 
pressed her wildly to him, sobbing and stammering: 

“It is true I had that frightful thought — I should 
have done it, and I resisted on thinking of that unfinished 
picture! But can I still live if work will have nothing 
more to do with me? How can I live after that, after 
what’s there, what I spoilt just now?” 

“I will love you and you will live.” 

“Ah ! you will never love me enough — I know myself. 
Some delight which does not exist would be necessary, 
something which would make me forget everything! 
You cannot accomplish anything!” 

“Yes, yes, you will see!” 

This time he was conquered. 

“Well, save me. Yes, take me if you don’t want me 
to kill myself! And invent happiness, let me know 
some delight which will retain me ! Lull me, annihilate 
me, so that I may become your thing, slave enough, 
small enough to dwell under your feet, in your slippers! 
Ah! to live only to obey you like a dog, to eat and sleep 
— if I could, if I only could!” 

She raised a cry of victory : 

“ At last you are mine ! there is only myself left, the 
other one is quite dead!” 

And she dragged him from the execrated painting, 
she carried him into her room triumphantly. The 


442 


SUICIDE. 


candle, now nearly burnt, flared up for a minute behind 
them on the steps and then went out. Five o’clock 
struck at the cuckoo clock, not a gleam as yet illumined 
the hazy November sky. And everything subsided 
once more into chilly darkness. 

Then provokingly, domineeringly, with a laugh of 
pride, she made him blaspheme: 

“Say that painting is idiotic.” 

“Painting is idiotic.” 

“Say that you won’t work any more, that you don’t 
care a fig for it, that you will burn your paintings to 
please me.” ♦ 

“I will burn my paintings and I won’t work any 
more.” 

When the dawn appeared, yellowishly dirty, like a 
splash of liquid mud on the window panes, he started, 
fancying that he heard a loud voice calling to him from 
the far end of the studio. All his old thoughts had 
returned, overflowing and torturing him, hollowing his 
cheeks and contracting his jaws, in the disgust he felt 
for humanity. Two wrinkles imparted intense bitterness 
to the expression of his face, which was like the wasted 
countenance of an old man. 

Suddenly the loud voice at the far end of the studio 
imperiously summoned him a second time. And then 
he made up his mind, it was all over, he suffered too 
much, he could no longer live, since everything was a 
lie, since there was nothing good upon earth. He had 
broken the chain at last; he was free. A third summons 
made him hasten, and he went to the studio, saying: 

“Yes, yes, I’m coming.” 

The sky did not clear, it was still dirty and mournful, 
one of those lugubrious winter dawns; and an hour later 
Christine awoke with a great chilly shiver. She did not 
understand at first. How did it happen that she was 
alone? Then she remembered: she had fallen asleep 
with her cheek against his heart. How was it then that 


SUICIDE. 


443 


he had been able to leave her? Where could he be? 
Suddenly, amid her torpor, she sprang, with violence, out 
of bed, and ran into the studio. Good God! had he 
returned to the other one? Had the other one seized 
hold of him again, when she herself fancied that she had 
conquered him forever? 

she saw nothing at the first glance she took ; in the 
cold and muddy morning twilight the studio seemed to 
her to be deserted. But as she was tranquillizing her- 
self at seeing nobody there, she raised her eyes to the 
canvas, and a terrible cry leapt from her gaping mouth: 

“Claude, oh! Claudel” 

Claude had hanged himself from the steps in front of 
his spoilt work. He had simply taken one of the cords 
which held the frame to the wall, and he had mounted 
on the platform, so as to fasten the rope to an oaken 
crosspiece, which he himself had one day nailed to the 
uprights to consolidate them. Then from up above he 
had leapt into space. He was hanging there in his shirt, 
with his feet bare, looking horrible with his black 
tongue, and his bloodshot eyes which had started from 
their orbits ; he seemed to have grown frightfully tall in 
his motionless stiffness, and his face was turned towards 
the picture, close to the woman, as if he had wished to 
infuse his soul into her with his last gasp, and as if he 
were still looking at her with his expressionless eyes. 

Christine, however, remained erect, quite turned with 
the grief, fright and anger which dilated her body. 
Only a continuous howl came from her throat. She 
opened her arms, stretched them out towards the picture, 
and clenched both hands. 

“Oh, Claude! oh, Claude!” she gasped at last, “she 
has taken you back — the hussy has killed you, killed 
you, killed you!” 

And then her legs gave way. She span round and fell 
all of a heap upon the tiled flooring. Her excessive 
suffering had taken all the blood from her heart, and, 


444 


SUICIDE. 


fainting away, she lay there, as if she were dead, like a 
white rag, miserable, done for, crushed beneath the fierce 
sovereignty of Art. Above her the woman was radiant 
in her symbolic idol’s brightness; painting triumphed, 
alone immortal and erect, even when mad. 

At nine o’clock on the Monday morning, when Sandoz, 
after the formalities and delay occasioned by the suicide, 
arrived in the Eue Tourlaque for the funeral, he only 
found a score or so of people on the footway. Despite 
his great grief, he had been running about for three days, 
compelled to attend to everything. At first, Christine 
having been picked up half-dead, he had been obliged to 
have her carried to the Hopital de Lariboisiere; then he 
had gone from the municipal, offices to the undertakers 
and the church, paying everywhere, and full of indiffier- 
ence so far as that went, since the priests were willing to 
pray over this corpse with a black circle round its neck. 
Among the people who were waiting he as yet only 
perceived some neighbors, together with a few inquisitive 
folks ; while there were faces looking out of the house 
windows and whispering together, excited by the drama. 
Claude’s friends would, no doubt, soon come. He, 
Sandoz, had not been able to write to any members of 
the family as he did not know their addresses; but he 
retreated into the background on the arrival of two rela- 
tives, whom three dry lines in the newspapers had 
roused from the forgetfulness in which Claude himself, 
no doubt, had left them: an old female cousin,* with the 
equivocal air of a dealer in second-hand goods, and a 
male cousin, of the second degree, very rich, decorated 
with the Legion of Honor, owning one of the large Paris 
shops, good-naturedly condescending in his elegance, and 
desirous of showing his enlightened taste for art. The 
female cousin at once went up-stairs, turned round the 

* Madame Sidonie who figures in M. Zola’s novel, “ In the Whirlpool.” The 
male cousin, mentioned immediately afterwards, is Octave Mouret the hero 
of “Pot-Bouille ” and “The SIk^ Girls of Paris.’’ 


SUICIDE. 


445 


studio, sniffed at all this bare wretchedness, and then 
walked down again, with a hard mouth and irritated at 
having taken the trouble to come. The second cousin, 
on the contrary, drew himself up and walked first behind 
the hearse, filling the part of chief mourner with proud 
and pleasant fitness. 

As the procession was starting off* Bongrand came up, 
and, after shaking hands with Sandoz, remained beside 
him. He was gloomy, and, glancing at the fifteen or 
twenty persons who followed, he murmured : 

“Ah! poor chap! What! are there only we two?” 

Dubuche was at Cannes with his children. Jory and 
Fagerolles kept away, the former hating the deceased and 
the latter being too busy. Mahoudeau alone caught the 
party up at the rise of the Kue Lepic, and he explained 
that Gagni5re must have missed the train. 

The hearse slowly ascended the steep thoroughfare, 
which winds round the flanks of the height of Montmar- 
tre ; and now and then cross streets sloping downward, 
sudden gaps amid the houses, showed one the immensity 
of Paris as deep and as broad as a sea. When the party 
arrived in front of the Church of* St. Pierre, and the 
coffin was carried up the steps, it overtopped the great 
city for a moment. There was a gray wintry sky over- 
head, large masses of clouds blew along carried away by 
an icy wind, and Paris seemed to be enlarged, to become 
endless in this mist, filling the horizon with its threaten- 
ing billows. The poor fellow who had wished to con- 
quer it, and who had broken his neck in the fruitlessness 
of his effort, passed in front of it, nailed under an oaken 
board, returning to the earth like one of the city’s muddy 
waves. 

On leaving the church the female cousin disappeared, 
Mahoudeau likewise ; while the second cousin again took 
his position behind the hearse. Seven other unknown 
persons decided to follow, and they started for the new 
cemetery of St. Ouen^ to which the people have given 


446 


SUICIDE. 


the disquieting and lugubrious name of Cayenne. There 
were ten mourners in all. 

“"Well, we two shall be the only friends,” repeated 
Bongrand, as he began walking again beside Sandoz. 

The procession, preceded by the mourning coach in 
which the priest and the singing boy were seated, now 
descended the other side of the height, down winding 
streets as precipitous as mountain paths. The horses of 
the hearse slipped over the slimy pavement ; you could 
hear the wheels jolting noisily. Eight behind, the ten 
mourners took little steps, trying to avoid the puddles, 
and so occupied with the difficulty of the descent that they 
refrained from speaking. But at the bottom of the Kue 
du Euisseau, when they reached the Porte de Clignan- 
court, amid the vast open spaces, where the boulevard 
running round the city, the circular railway, the talus and 
moats of the fortifications were displayed to view, there 
were sighs of relief, a few words were exchanged, and 
the party began to straggle. 

Sandoz and Bongrand by degrees found themselves 
behind all the others, as if they had wished to isolate 
themselves from these folks whom they had never seen 
before. Just as the hearse was passing the city gate, the 
painter leant towards the novelist. 

“ And the little woman, what is going to be done with 
her? ” 

“Ah! how dreadful it is!” replied Sandoz. “I went 
to see her yesterday at the hospital. She has brain 
fever. The house doctor maintains that they will save** 
her, but that she will come out of it ten years older and 
without any strength. Do you know that she had come 
to such a point that she no longer knew how to spell. 
Such a fall, quite crushing, a young lady abased to the 
level of a servant! Yes, if we don’t take care of her like 
a cripple, she will end by becoming a scullery maid 
somewhere!” 

“And not a copper, of course? ” 


SUICIDE. 


447 


“ Not a copper. I tliought I should find the studies 
Claude made from nature for his large picture, those 
superb studies which he afterwards turned to such poor 
account. But I ferreted everywhere; he gave every- 
thing away ; people robbed him. No, nothing to sell, 
not a canvas that could be turned to profit, nothing but 
that huge picture which I demolished and burnt with 
my own hands, and right gladly, I assure you, like 
one avenges one’s self!” 

They became silent for a moment. The broad road 
leading to St. Ouen stretched away quite straight, as far 
as the eye could reach ; and amid the plain the proces- 
sion went on, pitifully small, lost, as it were, on this high- 
way, along which there flowed a river of mud. A line 
of palings bordered it on either side, waste land 
extended both to right and left, while afar off* one only 
saw some factory chimneys and a few lofty white houses, 
standing alone, obliquely to the road. They passed 
through the Clignancourt f6te with booths, circuses and 
roundabouts on either side, all shivering in the abandon- 
ment of winter, empty dancing cribs, mouldy swings, a 
kind of stage homestead. The Picardy Farm, looking 
dismally sad between its broken fences. 

“Ah! his old canvases,” resumed Bongrand, “the 
things he had at the Quai de Bourbon, do you remember 
them? There were some extraordinary bits among 
them. The landscapes he brought back from the South 
and the academy studies painted at Boutin’s. Oh ! yes, 
yes, the fellow was no fool — simply a great painter! ” 

“When I think,” said Sandoz, “that those little hum- 
bugs of the School and the press accused him of idleness 
and ignorance, repeating one after the other that he had 
always refused to learn his art! Idle! good heavens, 
why I have seen him faint with fatigue after sittings ten 
hours long; he gave his whole life to his work and 
killed himself in his passion for toil! And they call him 
ignorant — how idiotic ! they will never understand that 


448 


SUICIDE. 


tlie individual gift wliicli a man brings in his nature is 
superior to acquired knowledge. Delacroix, also, was 
ignorant of his profession in their eyes, simply’ because 
he could not confine himself to hard and fast rules! Ah! 
the ninnies, the good pupils lacking blood who are 
incapable of painting anything incorrectly! ” 

He took a few steps in silence and then he added : 

“A heroic worker, a passionate observer whose brain 
had crammed itself with science, the temperament of a 
great artist with admirable gifts. And to think that he 
leaves nothing, nothing.” 

“Absolutely nothing, not a canvas,” declared Bon- 
grand. “I know nothing of his but rough drafts, 
sketches, notes carelessly jotted down, as it were, all 
that artistic paraphernalia which can’t be submitted to 
the public. Yes, indeed, it is really a dead man, dead 
completely, whom they are going to lower into the 
earth.” 

However, the painter and the novelist now had to 
hasten their steps, for they had got far behind while 
talking; and the hearse, after rolling past taverns and 
shops full of funereal monuments, was turning to the 
right into the short avenue leading to the cemetery. 
They overtook it, and passed through the gateway with 
the little procession. The priest in his surplice and the 
singing boy carrying the holy water receiver, who had 
both alighted from the mourning coach, walked on 
ahead. 

It was a large, flat cemetery, still in its youth, 
laid out by rule and line in the suburban waste land, 
and cut up into squares by large symmetrical paths. A 
few raised tombs bordered the principal avenues, but 
most of the graves, already very numerous, were on a 
level with the soil. They were hastily arranged, and 
but temporary sepulchres, for five year grants were the 
only ones that could be obtained; and the hesitation of 
families to go to serious expense^ the stones sinking for 


SUICIDE. 


449 


lack of foundations, tlie scrubby evergreens which had 
not yet had time to grow, all this provisional slop kind 
of mourning lent the vast field of repose a look of 
poverty and cold, clean nudity, dismal like a barrack or 
a hospital. There was not a corner to be found recall- 
ing the nooks sung of in the ballads of the romantic 
period, not one leafy turn, quivering with mystery, not a 
single large tomb speaking of pride and eternity. You 
were in the new style of cemetery, where everything 
was set out straight and duly numbered — the cemetery 
of democratic capitals, where the dead seem to slumber 
at the bottom of an office drawer, each morning’s tide 
dislodging and replacing that of the day before, where 
the dead pass along one by one in a file, as people do 
at a fete under the eyes of the police, so as to avoid 
obstruction. 

“Dash it!” muttered Bongrand, “it isn’t gay here.” 

“ Why not ? ” asked Sandoz. “ It’s commodious ; there 
is plenty of air. And even although there is no sun, see 
what a pretty color it all has.” 

In fact, under the gray sky of this November morn- 
ing, in the penetrating quiver of the wind, the low tombs, 
loaded with garlands and crowns of beads, assumed soft 
tints of charming delicacy. There were some quite 
white, and others all black, according to the color of the 
beads; but the contrast lost much of its strength amid 
the pale green foliage of the dwarfish trees. Families 
exhausted their affection for the dear departed in decking 
these five year grants; crowns were piled up and flowers 
bloomed — freshly brought there on the recent Day of 
the Dead. Only the cut flowers had as yet faded, between 
their paper collars. Some crowns of yellow immortelles 
shone out like freshly chiselled gold. But the beads. so 
predominated that there seemed to be nothing else; they 
gushed forth everywhere, hiding the inscriptions and 
covering the stones and railings — beads forming hearts, 
beads in festoons and medallions, beads framing little 
28 


450 


SUICIDE. 


ornamental designs, or objects under glass, pansies, bands 
entwined, satin bows, and even photographs of w'omen, 
yellow, faded, cheap photographs, showing poor, ngly, 
touching faces, smiling awkwardly. 

As the hearse proceeded along the Avenue du Eond- 
Point, Sandoz, whose last remark of an artistic nature 
had brought him back to Claude, resumed the conversa- 
tion, saying: 

“This is a cemetery which he would have understood, 
he who was so mad on modern things. No doubt he 
suffered physically, wasted away by the over severe lesion 
that is so often akin to genius, three grains too little, or 
three grains too much of some substance in the brain, as 
he himself said when he reproached his parents for having 
constituted him so funnily. However, his disorder was 
not merely a personal affair, he was the victim of our 
period. Yes, our generation has soaked up to the 
stomach in romanticism, and we have remained impreg- 
nated with it. It is in vain that we wash ourselves and 
take baths of reality, the stain is obstinate, and all the 
scrubbing in the world won’t take its smell away.” 

Bongrand smiled. “Oh! as for romanticism,’"’ said he, 
“I’m up to my ears in it. It has fed my art, and, indeed, 
I’m impenitent. If it be true that my final paralysis is 
due to that, well, after all, what does it matter? I can’t 
deny the religion of all my artistic life. However, your 
remark is quite correct ; you other fellows, you are 
rebellious sons. Claude, for instance, with his big 
woman amid the quays, that extravagant symbol — ” 

“Ah, that woman!” interrupted Sandoz, “it was she 
who throttled him. If you knew how he cared for her! 
I was never able to cast her out of him. And how can 
one possibly have clear perception, a solid, properly-bal- 
anced brain when such phantasmagoria sprout forth 
from your skull? Though coming after yours, our 
generation is too imaginative to leave healthy works 
behind it. Another generation, perhaps two, will be 


SUICIDE. 


451 


required before people paint and write logically, with the 
high, pure simplicity of truth. Truth, nature alone, is 
the right basis, the necessary guide, outside of Avhich 
madness begins ; and the toiler needn’t be afraid of flat- 
tening his work, his temperament is there which will 
always carry him sufliciently away. Does any one dream 
of denying personality, the involuntary thumb-stroke 
which deforms whatever w'e touch, and constitutes our 
poor creativeness?” 

However, he turned his head, and involuntarily 
added : 

“Hallo! what’s burning? Are they lighting bonfires 
here?” 

The procession had turned on reaching the Kond-Point, 
where the ossuary was situated — the common vault 
gradually filled with all the remnants removed from the 
graves, and the stone of which, in the centre of a cir- 
cular lawn, disappeared under a heap of wreaths, depos- 
ited there by the pious relatives of those who no longer 
had an individual resting-place. And, as the hearse 
rolled slowly to the left in transversal Avenue Ho. 2, there 
had come a sound of crackling, and a thick smoke had 
risen above the little plane trees bordering the path. 
Some distance ahead, as the party approached, they 
could see a large pile of earthy things beginning to burn, 
and they ended by understanding. The fire was lighted 
at the edge of a large square patch of ground, which had 
been dug up in broad parallel furrows, so as to remove 
the coffins before allotting the soil to other corpses; just 
as the peasant turns the stubble over before sowing 
afresh. The long empty furrows seemed to yawn, the 
mounds of rich soil seemed to be purifying themselves 
under the sky ; and the fire thus burning in this corner 
was formed of the rotten wood of the coffins, slit, broken 
boards, eaten into by the earth, often reduced to a ruddy 
humus, and gathered there in an enormous pile. They 


452 


SUICIDE. 


broke up with dull-sounding detonations, and being damp 
witli liuman mud, they refused to flame, merely smoking 
with growing intensity. Large columns of smoke rose 
into the pale sky, and were beaten down by the Novem- 
ber wind, and torn into ruddy shreds, which flew across 
the low tombs of quite one-half of the cemetery. 

Sandoz and Bongrand had looked at the scene with- 
out saying a word. Then, when they had passed the 
fire, the former resumed : 

“No, he did not prove to be the man of the formula he 
laid down. I mean that his genius was not clear enough 
to enable him to set that formula erect, and impose it 
upon the world by a definite masterpiece. And now see 
how other fellows scatter their efforts around him, after 
him. They go no farther than roughing off, they give 
us but hasty impressions, and not one of them seems to 
have strength enough to become the master who is 
awaited. Isn’t it irritating, this new notion of light, this 
passion for truth carried as far as scientific analysis, this 
evolution, begun with such originality, and now loiter- 
ing on the way, as it were, falling into the hands of 
tricksters, and not coming to a head, simply because the 
necessary man isn’t born? But pooh! the man will be 
born ; nothing is ever lost, light must be.” 

“Who knows? — not always,” said Bongrand. “Life 
miscarries like everything else. I listen to you, you 
know, but I’m a despairer. I am dying of sadness, and 
I feel that everything else is dying. Ah! yes, there is 
something unhealthy in the atmosphere of the times — 
this end of a century crowded with demolitions, full of 
rent monuments, with soil that has been turned over 
and over a hundred times, the whole exhaling a stench 
of death! Can anybody remain in good health amid 
all that? Your nerves become unhinged, the great 
neurosis is there, art grows unsettled, there is a general 
bustling, perfect anarchy, all the madness of self-love at 


SUICIDE. 


453 


bay. Never have people quarrelled more and seen less 
clearly than since it is pretended that one knows every- 
thing.” 

Sandoz, who had grown pale, watched the large ruddy 
coils of smoke rolling in the wind. 

“It was fatal,” he mused in an undertone. “This 
excessive activity and pride of knowledge was bound to 
cast us back into doubt. This century, which has 
already thrown so much light over the world, was bound 
to finish amid the threat of a fresh flow of darkness — 
yes, our discomfort comes from that. Too much has 
been promised,, too much has been hoped for; people 
have looked forward to the conquest and explanation of 
everything, and now they growl impatiently. What I 
don’t things go quicker than that? What! hasn’t 
science managed to bring us absolute certainty, perfect 
happiness in a hundred years? Then what is the use of 
going on, since one will never know everything, and 
one’s bread will always be as bitter? It is as if the 
century had become bankrupt, as if it had failed; pes- 
simism twists people’s bowels, mysticism fogs their 
brains; for we have vainly swept phantoms away with 
the light of analysis, the supernatural has resumed 
hostilities, the spirit of the legend rebels, and wants to 
conquer us, while we are halting . with fatigue and 
anguish. Ah! I certainly don’t affirm anything; I 
myself am tortured. Only it seems to me that this last 
convulsion of the old religious terrors was to be fore- 
seen. We are not the end, we are but a transition, a 
beginning of something else. It calms me and does me 
good to believe that we are marching towards reason 
and the solidity of science.” 

His voice had become husky with deep emotion, and 
he added: 

“That is, unless* madness plunges us, topsy-turvy, 
into night again, and we all go oft' throttled by the ideal, 


454 


SUICIDE. 


*like the old friend who sleeps there between his four 
boards.” 

The hearse was leaving transversal Avenue No. 2 to 
turn, on the right, into lateral Avenue No. 3, and the 
painter, without speaking, called the novelist’s attention 
to a square plot of graves, beside which the procession 
was now passing. 

There was here a children’s cemetery, nothing but 
children’s tombs, stretching far away, set out in orderly 
fashion, separated at regular intervals by narrow paths 
and looking like some infantine city of death. There 
were tiny little white crosses, tiny little white railings, 
disappearing almost beneath an efflorescence of white 
and blue wreaths, on a level with the soil; and the 
peaceful field of repose, so soft in color, with the bluey 
tint of milk about it, seemed to have been made flowery 
by all the childhood lying in the earth. The crosses 
recorded the various ages, two years, sixteen months, 
five months. One poor little cross, destitute of any 
railing, was out of line, having been set up slantingly 
across a path, and it simply bore these words : “ Eugenie, 

three days.” Not to be at yet, and withal to sleep there 
already, on one side, like the children who on fete occa- 
sions dine at a little side-table ! 

However, the hearse had at last stopped, in the mid- 
dle of the avenue; and when Sandoz saw the grave 
ready at the corner of the next division and in front of 
the cemetery of the little ones, he murmured tenderly: 

“Ah! my poor old Claude, with your big child’s heart, 
you will be in your place beside them I ” 

The underbearers removed the coffin from the hearse. 
The priest, who looked surly in the wind, was waiting; 
some sextons stood there with their shovels. Three 
neighbors had fallen off on the road, the ten had dwin- 
dled into seven. The second cousin, who had been 
holding his hat in his hand since leaving the church, 


SUICIDE. 


455 


despite the frightful weather, now drew nearer. All the 
others uncovered, and the prayers were about to begin, 
when a loud, piercing whistle made every head look up. 

Beyond this corner of the cemetery as yet untenanted, 
at the end of lateral Avenue No. 8, a train was passing 
along the high embankment of the circular railway, the 
line of which overlooked the cemetery. The grassy 
slope rose up, and geometrical lines, as it were, stood out 
black against the gray sky; telegraph posts, connected 
by thin wires, a superintendent’s box and a signal plate, 
the only red, throbbing speck around. When the train 
rolled past, with its thunder crash, one plainly distin- 
guished, as on the transparency of a shadow play, the 
outlines of the carriages, even the people showing their 
heads in the light gaps of the windows. And the line 
became clear again, a simple ink stroke across the hori- 
zon; while afar other whistles unceasingly called, and 
wailed, shrill with anger, hoarse with suffering, or chok- 
ing with distress. Then a guard’s horn resounded lugu- 
briously. 

Revertitur in terram ' suam unde eratp recited the 
priest, who had opened a book and was making haste. 

But he was not heard, for a large engine had come up 
puffing, and was manoeuvring backwards and forwards 
just above the ceremony. It had a huge thick voice, a 
guttural whistle, intensely melancholy. It came and 
went, panting, and seen in profile it looked like a heavy 
monster. Suddenly, moreover, it let off steam, with the 
furious blowing of a tempest. 

“ Requiescat in pace^'' said the priest. 

“Ameri,” replied the singing boy. 

But the words were lost amid this lashing, deafening 
detonation, which was prolonged with the continuous 
violence of a fusillade. 

Bongrand, who was exasperated, turned towards the 
engine. It became silent fortunately, and every one felt 


456 


SUICIDE. 


relieved. Tears bad risen to the eyes of Sandoz, who 
bad already been stirred by tbe words wbicb bad invol- 
untarily passed bis lips, while be walked behind bis old 
comrade, as if they bad been having one of their intoxi- 
cating chats of yore; and now it seemed to him that bis 
youth was about to be consigned to tbe earth ; it was 
part of himself, the best part, bis illusions and bis enthu- 
siasm which the sextons were taking away to slip into 
the depths of a hole. At this terrible moment an acci- 
dent occurred which increased his grief. It had rained 
so hard during the preceding days, and the ground w'as 
so soft that a sudden subsidence of the soil took place. 
One of the sextons had to jump into the grave, to empty 
it with his shovel with a slow rhythmical movement. 
There was no end to the matter, this funeral seemed 
likely to last forever amid the impatience of the priest 
and the interest of the four neighbors who had followed 
cn to the end, nobody could say why. And up above on 
the embankment, the engine had begun manoeuvring 
again, retreating, howling at each turn of the wheels, the 
fire-box open and lighting up the gloomy day with a 
rmn of sparks. 

At last the pit was emptied, the coffin lowered, and 
the aspergillus passed round. It was all over. The sec- 
ond cousin, standing erect, did the honors with his cor- 
rect, pleasant air, shaking hands with all these people 
wffiom he had never previously seen, in memory of this 
relative whose name he had not remembered the day 
before. 

“ That linen-draper is a very decent fellow,” said Bon- 
grand, who was swallowing his tears. 

“ Quite so,” replied Sandoz, sobbing. 

All the others were going off, the surplices of the 
priest and the singing boy disappeared between the 
green trees, the straggling neighbors loitered, reading 
the inscriptions on the tombs. 


SUICIDE. 


457 


And Sandoz, making up liis mind to leave the grave 
now half filled up, resumed: 

“We alone shall have known him. There is nothing 
left of him, not even a name.” 

“ He is very happy,” said Bongrand, “he has no pic- 
ture on hand, in the earth where he sleeps I It is as 
well to go off as to toil like we do merely to turn out 
infirm children, who always lack something, their legs 
or their head, and who don’t live.” 

“Yes, one must really be wanting in pride to resign 
one’s self to turning out merely approximate work and 
resorting to trickery with life. I who bestow every 
care on my books, I despise myself, for I feel that, 
despite my efforts, they are incomplete and untruthful.” 

With pale faces, they went slowly away, side by side, 
past the children’s white tombs, the novelist then in all 
the strength of his toil and fame, the painter, declining, 
but covered with glory. 

“ There, at least lies one who was logical and brave,” 
continued Sandoz; “he confessed his powerlessness and 
killed himself.” 

“That’s true,” said Bongrand; “if we didn’t care so 
much for our skins we should all do as he has done, 
eh?” 

“Well, yes; since we cannot create anything; since 
we are but feeble copyists, we might as well put an end 
to ourselves at once.” 

They again found themselves before the burning pile 
of old rotten coffins, now fully alight, sweating and 
crackling; but there were still no flames to be seen, the 
smoke alone had increased — a thick acrid smoke, which 
the wind impelled in whirling coils, and which now 
covered the whole cemetery as with a cloud of mourn- 

“Dash it! Eleven o’clock I” said Bongrand, after 
pulling out his watch. “I must get home again.” 


458 


SUICIDE. 


Sandoz gave an exclamation of surprise: 

“What! already eleven 1 ” 

-Over the low-lying graves, over the vast bead-flowered 
field of death, so regularly set out and so cold, he cast a 
long look of despair, his sight still bedimmed by his 
tears. And then he added; 

“Let us go to work!” 


THE END. 


£mile Zola’s Oa^eatest Works# 


MNA AND L’ASSOMMOIR. 

BY EMILE ZOL^. 


LIST OF £MIL£ ZOLA’S GREAT WORKS. 

Petersons’ Translations in English for American Readers. 

Nana! The Sequel to “ L'Assommoir.” Nana! By Emile Zola. With a Picture of 
**Nana” on the cover. Price 75 cents in paper cover, or One Dollar in Cloth, Black and Gold, 

L*Assoininoir; or, Nana’s mother. By Emile Zola, author of '‘Nana.” With a 
Picture o/“ Gervaise,” Nana’s mother, on the cover. Price 75 cents in paper, or One Dollar in Cloth, 

The Shop Oirls of Paris, with their Life and Experiences in a Large Dry Goods Store. 
By Emile Zola, author oi" Nana.” Price 75 cents in paper cover, or ,^1.25 in Cloth. 

The mysteries of the t’onrt of JLoiiis Napoleon. By Emile Zola, author of 
*‘Nana” and”L’ Assommoir.” Price 75 cents in paper cover, or ^1.25 in Cloth, Black and Gold. 

Nana’s Brother. (Stephen Lantier.) The Son of “ Gervaise ” and “Lantier” of “ L'As- 
sommoir." By Emile Zola, author of “Nana” and ” L’ Assommoir.” Price 75 cents in paper 
cover, or $1.25 in Cloth, Black and Gold. 

The Oirl in Scarlet; or. The Iioves of Silvere and mielte. By Emile Zola, 
author oi” Nana” and “ L’ Assommoir .” Price 75 cents in paper cover, or $1.25 in Cloth. 

lia Belle I.isa; or. The Paris market Girls. By Emile Zola, aw^ox ol “ Nana,” 
and ‘‘E’ Assommoir,” Price 75 cents in paper cover, or $1.2$ in Cloth, Black and Gold. 

A mad I.iOve; or. The Abbe and His f’onrt. By Emile Zola, author of “Nanay 
and “ U Assommoir.” Price 75 cents in paper cover, or $1.25 in Cloth, Black and Gold. 

The Joys of Yiife. By Emile Zola, author of “Nana,” “L’ Assommoir,” etc. With 
an Illustration on cover. Price 75 cents in paper cover, or $1.25 in Cloth. 

Cllande’s C’onfession. By Emile Zola, author of “Nana,” “ L’ Assommoir,” “ Pot- 
Bouille,” “ The Girl in Scarlet,” etc. Price 75 cents in paper cover, or $1.25 in cloth. Black and Gold. 

Pot-Bonille. By Emile Zola, author of “Nana,” “L’ Assommoir,” etc. Pot«Bouille. 
With an Illustrated Cover. Price 75 cents in paper cover, or $1.25 in Cloth, Black and Gold. 

Her Two Husbands. By Emile Zola, author of “Nana,” “ L’ Assommoir ,” “Pot- 
Bouille,” “The Girl in Scarlet y etc. Price 75 cents in paper cover, or $1.25 in Cloth. 

In the Whirlpool. By Emile Zola, author of “Nana,” “ L’ Assommoir,” etc. With an 
Illustrated Cover. Price 75 cents in paper cover, or ^1.25 in Cloth, Black and Gold. 

H^ldne. A Tale of Love and Passion. By Emile Zola, author of “Nana,” and “ L’ Assom- 
moir.” With a Picture of“Hellne ” on the cover. Price 75 cents in paper cover, or $1.25 in Cloth. 

The mysteries of marseilles. By Emile Zola, xiWCsxox oi “Nana,” “ L’ Assommoir,” 
“The Girl'in Scarlet,” etc. Price 75 cents in paper cover, or $1.25 in Cloth, Black and Gold. 

Albine; or. The Abbe’s Temptation. By Emile Zola, 2^^^lnQx oi“ Nana,” and “ U As- 
sommoir.” With a Picture of “Albine^’ on the cover. Price 75 cents in paper, or 1^1.25 in Cloth. 

ma;c<ln^lc» Ferat. By Emile Zola, author of “Nana.” With a Picttire 0/ “Magdalen 
Perat” on the cover. Price 75 cents in paper cover, or ;fi.25 in Cloth, Black and Gold. 

Th<ir^se Baqnin. By Emile Zola, author of “Nana.” With a Portrait 0/ “Emile Zola” 
on the cover. Price 75 cents in paper cover, or One Dollar in Cloth, Black and Gold. 

Nana’s Bans'hie*** A Continuation of and Sequel to Emile Zola's Great Realistic Novel of 
“Nana.” Price 75 cents in paper cover, or ;gi.oo in cloth, black and gold. 

Petersons’ American Translation 0/ Emile Zola’ s works are for sale by all Booksellers and 
at all News Stands everywhere, or copies of any one book, or more of them, will be sent to any one, 
to any place, at once, post-paid, on remitting the price of the ones wanted in a letter to the Publishers, 

T. B. PETEIiSON & BKOTHEKS, Pliiladelpliia, Pa. 


PETERSONS’ NEW BOOKS. 


MARRIED ABOVE HER. A Society Romance. By a Lady 
of New York. Paper cover, 75 cents ; cloth, $1.25. 

THE CHANGED BRIDES; or, WINNING HER 
WAY. By Mrs. Southworth. Paper, 75 cents ; cloth, $1.50. 
HARRY COVERDALE’S COURTSHIP AND MAR- 
RIAGE. Paper cover, 75 cents ; cloth, $1.50. 
SELF-RAISED; or, PROM THE DEPTHS. By Mrs. 

Emma D. E. N. Southworth. Paper, 75 cents ; cloth, $1.50. 
THE MAN FROM TEXAS. A Powerful Western Romance, 
full of love and adventure. Paper, 75 cents ; cloth, $1.25. 
ISHMAEL; or, IN THE DEPTHS. By Mrs. Emma D. E. 

N. Southworth. Paper cover, 75 cents; cloth, $1.50. 

HANS BREITM ANN’S BALLADS. Complete Edition and 
Unabridged., with Glossary. Morocco cloth, gilt, $4.00. 
ERRING, YET NOBLE. The Story of a Woman’s Life. 

By Isaac G. Reed, Jr. Paper, 75 cents; cloth, $1.25. 
KATHLEEN! THEO! A QUIET LIFE! MISS CRES- 
PIGNY! PRETTY POLLY PEMBERTON! 
LINDSAY’S LUCK! and JARL’S DAUGHTER! 
By Mrs. Burnett. Paper, 50 cents each ; cloth, $1.00 each. 
THOSE PRETTY ST. GEORGE GIRLS. The most 
Popular Book of the season. Paper, 75 cents ; cloth, $1.00. 
CAMILLE; or, THE PATE OP A COQUETTE. By 
Alexander Dumas. Paper cover, 75 cents ; cloth, $1.25. 
CONSUELO; and COUNTESS OP RUDOLSTADT. 

B\) George Sand. Paper, 75 cents each ; cloth, $1.00 each. 
HELEN’S BABIES; and MRS. MAYBURN S TWINS. 

By John Habherton. Paper, 50 cents each ; cloth, $1.00 each. 
ANNALS OP A BABY! BESSIE’S SIX LOVERS! and 
BERTHA'S BABY ! Paper, 50 cents ; cloth, $1.00 each. 
iNANA! L’ASSOMMOIR! THE LADIES’ PARADISE! 
POT-BOUILLE! and HER TWO HUSBANDS! 
each hy Emile Zola, also NANA’S DAUGHTER, the Sequel 
to “Wa?ia.” Paper, 75 cents each ; cloth, $1.00 or $1.25 each. 

The above works are for sale by all Booksellers and News Agents, at all Newt 
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PETER SONS’ NEW BOOKS. 

ZITKA; or. The Trials of Raissa. By Henry Greville. Flay 
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FASmO]^ AND FAMINE. By Mrs. Ann S. Stephens. Cheap 
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PRANCATELLI’S MODERN COOK BOOK FOR 1887. 
Enlarged Edition. With the most approved methods of 
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Illustrations. 600 pages, morocco cloth, price $5.00. 
MONTE-CRISTO’S DAUGHTER. Sequel to and end of 
“ Edmond Dantes.” Paper, 75 cents ; cloth, $1.25. 

LITTLE HEARTSEASE. Equal to Rhoda Broughton’s best 
book. By Annie L. Wright. Paper, 50 cents ; cloth, $1.00. 
NOT HIS DAUGHTER. A New American Novel. By Will 
Herbert. Paper„50 cents ; cloth, $1.00. 

A BOHEMIAN TRAGEDY. A Spicy Novel of New York 
Life. By Lily Curry. Paper cover, 50 cents; cloth, $1.00. 
THE MASTER OP L’ETRANGE. A New American Novel. 

By Eugene Hall. Paper, 75 cents ; cloth, $1.25. 

KARAN KRINGLE’S COURTSHIP AND JOURNAL. 

With 21 Full-Page Illustrations. Morocco cloth, price $1.50. 
DORA’S DEVICE. A Highly Dramatic Story. By George R. 

Gather^ of Ashville, Alabama. Paper, 75 cents ; cloth, $1.25. 
MARK MAYNARD’S WIPE. A Novel in Real Life. By 
Frankie Fating King. Paper, 75 cents; cloth, $1.25. 

THE SHOP GIRLS OP PARIS, and NANA’S BROTHER. 

By Emile Zola. Paper, 75 cents each ; cloth, $1.25 each. 
THE COUNT OF MONTE-CRISTO. Petersons’ Illustrated 
Edition. Paper, $1.00; cloth, $1.50. Cheap edition, 50 cents. 
EDMOND DANTES. Only Sequel to “ The Count of Monte- 
Cristo.” Paper, 75 cents; cloth, $1.25. 

THE WIPE OP MONTE-CRISTO, and THE SON OP 
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THE COUNTESS OP MONTE-CRISTO. With her Por- 
trait. Paper cover, $1.00; cloth, $1.50. 

The above works are for sale by all Booksellers and News Agents^ at all News 
Stands everywhere, and on all Rail~Road Trains, or copies of any one or all of them will 
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T. B. PETERSON & BROTHERS, Pliiladelpliia, Pa» 


Mrs. Southwgrth’s Works. 

BACH IS IN ONE LARGE DUODECIMO VOLUME, MOROCCO CLOTH, GILT BACK, PRICE $V.50 EACH 
Copies of all or any will be sent post-paid, to any place, on receipt of remittances. 

ISHMAEL; or, IN THE DEPTHS. (Being “Self-Made; or, Out of Depths.”; 
SELF-RAISED ; or. From the Depths. The Sequel to “ Ishmael.” 

THE PHANTOM WEDDING; or. The Fall of the House of Flint. 

THE “MOTHER-IN-LAW;” or, MARRIED IN HASTE. 

THE MISSING BRIDE; or, MIRIAM, THE AVENGER. 

VICTOR’S TRIUMPH. The Sequel to “A Beautiful Fiend.” 

A BEAUTIFUL FIEND; or, THROUGH THE FIRE. 

THE LADY OF THE ISLE; or, THE ISLAND PRINCESS. 

FAIR PLAY; or, BRITOMARTE, THE MAN-HATER, 

HOW HE WON HER. The Sequel to “ Fair Play.” 

THE CHANGED BRIDES; or. Winning Her V/ ay. 

THE BRIDE’S FATE. The Sequel to “The Changed Brides.” 
CRUEL AS THE GRAVE; or. Hallow Eve Mystery. 

TRIED FOR HER LIFE. The Sequel to “ Cruel as the Grave.” 

THE CHRISTMAS GUEST; or, The Crime and the Curse. 

THE LOST HEIR OF LINLITHGOW; or. The Brothers. 

A NOBLE LORD. The Sequel to “ The Lost Heir of Linlithgow.” 
THE FAMILY DOOM; or, THE SIN OF A COUNTESS. 

THE MAIDEN WIDOW. The Sequel to “ The Family Doom.” 

THE GIPSY’S PROPHECY; or. The Bride of an Evening. 

THE FORTUNE SEEKER; or, Astrea, The Bridal Day. 

THE THREE BEAUTIES; or, SHANNONDALE. 

FALLEN PRIDE; or, THE MOUNTAIN GIRL’S LOVE. 

THE DISCARDED DAUGHTER; or, The Children of the Isle. 

THE PRINCE OF DARKNESS; or, HICKORY HALL. 

THE TWO SISTERS; or, Virginia and Magdalene. 

THE FATAL MARRIAGE • or, ORVILLE DEVILLE. 

INDIA; or, THE PEARL OF PEARL RIVER. THE CURSE OF CLIFTON. 

THE WIDOW’S SON; or, LEFT ALONE. 

THE MYSTERY OF DARK HOLLOW. 

ALLWORTH ABBEY; or, EUDORA. 

THE BRIDAL EVE; or, ROSE ELMER. 

VIVIA; or, THE SECRET OF POWER. 

THE HAUNTED HOMESTEAD. 


THE WIFE’S VICTORY. 
THE SPECTRE LOVER. 

THE ARTIST’S LOVE. 
THE FATAL SECRET. 

LOVE’S LABOR WON. 
THE LOST HEIRESS. 


BRIDE OF LLEWELLYN. THE DESERTED WIFE. RETRIBUTION. 


Mrs. Southworth^s works will he found for sale by all first-class Booksellers, 
Copies of any one, or more of 3Irs. Southworth*s works, will be sent to any place^ 
at ^nce, per mail, post-paid, on remitting price of the ones wanted to the Publishers, 

T. B. PETERSON & BROTHERS, Philadelphia , Pa 


By author of “Nana” and “L’Assommoir.” 



Being the Struggles of Nana’s Artist Brother, Claude Lantier, in a new 
School of Art, wherein Bohemianism and Artist Life in Baris 
among the Beautiful Models in the Studios are graphi- 
cally described and vividly and truthfully depicted. 


AUTHOR OF “NANA," “ l'aSSOMMOIK," “ CLAITDE’s CONFESSION," “HELENE," “ POT-BOUILLB,'* 
“THERESE RAQUIN," “mysteries OF MARSEILLES," “ THE GIRL IN SCARLET," “ALBINE," 
“the shop girls of PARIS,” “MYSTERIES OF THE COURT OF LOUIS NAPOLEON," 

“ MAGDALEN FERAT," “ NANA’S BROTHER," “ HER TWO HUSBANDS," 

“the joys OF LIFE," “ LA BELLE LISA," “ IN THE WHIRLPOOL.” 


Christine, the Model ; or. Studies of Lovef is the title of Emile Zola's nexv book, 
one of his very best productions and certainly his most daring venture in the field 
of naturalism. Absorbing interest marks every page and the reader is riveted to 
it, for it is a masterpiece in the highest sense of the word. Artist life in Paris is the 
the7ne and the characters are mainly Bohemian painteis, jouimalists and literary me7i, 
together with the 7vofnen who have joined their fortunes to theirs. Wholesale dissections 
and revelations of the most piquant natm-e ai'e indtdged in. Claude Lantier, son of Ger- 
vaise and Lantier of L' Assommoir" and brother of the beautiful Nana, is the hei-o. 
He and Christine pervade the book, a thrilling picture of their ardent love and how it 
eventually grew cold being given. Claude is a wild enthusiast zvith an ill-balanced 
mind. He has decided ability as an artist, but his monomania for founding a new 
realistic school of pamting and producing a masterwork pi-events him from attaining 
success. Biting poverty is finally his lot, and Christine devotedly shares his misej-y, 
racked and tortured by intense and bitter jealousy of the women on his canvas, for ivhotn 
' he forsakes her and to whom he gives his passionate adoration. Under the name of 
Sandoz, Zola personally figures largely in the fascinating novel, and the statements 
made with reference to his life, literary aims and niethods of labor are undoiibtedly 
autobiographical. This lends additional interest to the narrative, for everybody is 
anxious to get a clear insight into the pi'ivate career of the world-famous realistic nov- 
elist. Many of the other characters are also taken from life and bi-ought on the stage 
of action %vith all their strange whims and eccentric peculiarities. '■^Christine, the 
Model," is undoubtedly one of the tnost startling novels of the age. It is full of spice, 
dash, vigor and originality, and so catchy that it is impossible to resist its spell. 


Paper Cover, 75 Cents. Morocco Cloth, Gilt and Black, $1.25. 


Christine, the Model; or. Studies of Love," is issued in a large duodecimo 
volume, in uiiifo 7 'm style with '*Na7ia," “ L' Asso77imoir," and all of Eiinle Zola' s other 
works, 7 vhich are published by T. B. Peterson iSr* Brothers, Philadelphia, and are for 
sale by all Booksellers and News Age7its everyiuhere, or copies of any one or all of thei7t 
will be sent to a7iy one, to any place, 07i re77iitti7ig price to the publishers, 

T. B. PETJEKSON & BKOTHEKS, Philadelphia, Pa. 



By author of ‘Nana’ & ‘L’Assommoir 

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Or, Studies of Love. Being the Struggles of Nana’s Artist Brother, Claude 
Lantier, in a new School of Art, wherein Bohemianism and Artist 
Life in Paris among the Beautiful Models in the Studios 
are graphically described and truthfully depicted. 


LIST OF £MIL£ ZOLA^S GREAT WORKS. 

Petersons’ Translations in English for American Readers. 

Nana! The Sequel to “ L'Assommoir.'' Nana! By Emile Zola. With a Picture o/ 
**Nana” on the cover. Price 75 cents in paper cover, or One Dollar in Cloth, Black and Cold. 

L’Assommoir; or, Nana’H Motlier. By Emile Zola, author of "Nana." With a 
Picture of" Gervaise,” Nana’s mother, 07 i the cover. Price 75 cents in paper, or One Dollar in Cloth. 

C'liristine, the Model; or Studies of Love. By Emile Zola, author oi " Nana," 
and " L’ Assommoir ." Price 75 cents in paper cover, or J1.25 in Cloth, Black and Gold. 

The Shop Girls of Paris, with their Life and Experiences in a Large Dry Goods Store. 
By Emile Zola, author oi" Nana.” Price 75 cents in paper cover, or ;^i.25 in Cioth. 

The Mysteries of the Court of Louis Napoleon. By Emile Zola, author of 
*‘Nana” and “ L’ Assommoir." Price 75 cents in paper cover, or $1.25 in Cloth, Black and Gold. 

Nana’s Brother. (Stephen Lantier.) The Son of “ Gervaise ” and “Lantier” of “ L’As- 
sommoir.'' By Emile Zola. Price 75 cents in paper cover, or $1.25 in Cloth, Black and Gold. 

The tiirl in Scarlet; or, 'fhe Loves of Silvere and Miette. By Emtle Zola, 
author o{ " Nana," and " L’ Assommoir.” Price 75 cents in paper cover, or in Cloth. 

The S*aris Market Girls; or, I.a Belle Lisa. By Emile Zola, s.\\t\\or oi "Nana," 
and " L’ Assovnnoir." Price 75 cents in paper cover, or $1.25 in Cloth, Black and Gold. 

A Mad Love; or. The Ahbe and His Court. By Emile Zola, author of "Nana," 
and " L’ Assommoir.” Price 75 cents in paper cover, or $1.25 in Cloth, Black and Gold. 

'Fhe .f<»ys of Life. By Emile Zola, author of "Nana,” " L’ Assommoir ,” etc. With 
an Illustration on cover. Price 75 cents in paper cover, or $1.25 in Cloth. 

Claude's t'onfcssion. By Emile Zola, author of "Nana," "L’Assommoir," " Pot- 
Bouille," " The Girl in Scarlet," etc. Price 75 cents in paper cover, or J1.25 in cloth. Black and Gold. 

Pot-Boiiillc. By Emile Zola, author of "Nana,” "L’Assommoir," etc. l*ot-Bouille. 
With an Illustrated Cover. Price 75 cents in paper cover, or $1.25 in Cloth, Black and Gold. 

Her Two Husbands. By Emile Zola, author of "Nana," " L’ Assommoir f "Pot- 
Bouille,” "The Girl in Scarlet f etc. Price 75 cents in paper cover, or $1.25 in Cloth. 

In the Whirlpool. By Emile Zola, author of "Nana,” " L’ Assommoir f etc. With an 
Illustrated Cover. Price 75 cents in paper cover, or $1.25 in Cloth, Black and Gold. 

H^l^ne. A Tale of Love and Passion. By Emile Zola, author of "Nana,” and " L’ Assom- 
moir.” With a Picture of"Heline” on the cor>er. Price 75 cents in paper cover, or $1.25 in Cloth. 

'B’he Mysteries of Marseilles. By Emile Zola, author of "Nana,” "L’Assommoir," 
" The Girl in Scarlet,” etc. Price 75 cents in paper cover, or $1.25 in Cloth, Black and Gold. 

Albiiie; or. The Abbe’s Temptation. By Etnile Zola, z.uXhoro{" Nana,” and "L’ As- 
sommoir.” With a Picture of "Albine'’ on the cover. Price 75 cents in paper, or $1.25 in Cloth. 

Ma;;:dalen Ferat. By Emile Zola, author of "Nana.” With a Picttire of "Magdalen 
Ferat” on the cover. Price 75 cents in paper cover, or $1.25 in Cloth, Black and Gold. 

Th<^r<^.se Baqiiin. By Emile Zola, author oi"Nana.” With a Portrait of " Emile Zola” 
on the cover. Price 75 cents in paper cover, or One Dollar in Cloth, Black and Gold. ♦ 

Nana’s l>au;;;liter. A Continuation of and Sequel to Emile Zola’s Great Realistic Novel of 
"Nana.” Price 75 cents in paper cover, or $1.00 in Cloth, Black and Gold. 

JSIS' Petersons’ American Translations of Emile Zola’ s works are for sale by all Booksellers and 
at all News Stands everywhere , or copies of any one book, or more of them, will be sent to any one, 
to any place, at once, post-paid, on remitting the price of the ones wanted in a letter to the Publishers, 

T. B. Pli:TEBSO]S^ & BKOTHERS, Philadelphia, Pa. 



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